


The Witcher 4: The Wolf Awakens

by Luke1813



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 96,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11389200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke1813/pseuds/Luke1813
Summary: Stripped of all he holds dear, Geralt of Rivia searches for meaning and peace in a world without hope. This is a slow-paced, character-driven tale of Geralt’s life after the “bad” ending of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. Contains heavy existential, philosophical, and religious themes.Warnings: Contains major spoilers of both books and games. Not 100% canon compliant. Rated “Mature” for violence and language.I am keeping the summary short and have posted few tags because I don't want to spoil anything.This is my first story so feedback is definitely welcome.





	1. Chapter 1

Author’s Note (August 2016):

This is a slow-paced, character-driven tale of Geralt’s life after the “bad” ending of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. Contains heavy existential, philosophical, and religious themes.

 

Warnings: Contains major spoilers of both books and games. Not 100% canon compliant. Rated “Mature” for violence and language.

 

Disclaimer: This is a derivative work based on the characters and universe created and owned by Andrzej Sapkowski and/or CD Projekt Red. This is my initial attempt at writing fiction and was undertaken strictly for my and, hopefully, your enjoyment.

 

oOo

 

_Lands Unknown, 2100 Years Ago_

 

            Gaineamh sprinted toward the edge of the cliff, his crying, four-year-old son’s little arms wrapped tightly around his neck.   He was only a hundred feet from the edge, and as he lifted his gaze from the ground in front of him, his view was entirely filled by the great ocean that ran on forever in every direction. He suddenly heard his wife, Darab, cry out his name from behind.  He turned his head expecting to see her right next to him but stopped as soon as he realized she was no longer there. She had stumbled and was down on her knees, frantically crawling toward their infant son who had flown from her grip when she had tripped on the rocky plain.  He ran back to them both, getting to his infant at the same time as his wife.  Darab pulled the blanket from her now wailing son but didn’t see any blood.

 

            “Darab! He’s okay! We must run!” he yelled to his wife as she scooped up her infant in her arms and as he tugged at her thin blouse to help her to her feet.

 

            With his back now to the ocean, Gaineamh had a clear view of what was behind them, and he was overwhelmed by the sight. The plain was miles wide and ran back towards the west for even more miles until it reached the base of an enormous mountain range.  The entire plain was covered with hundreds of thousands of his race running in his direction, almost all, like Darab and him, with children. The smallest children were carried in arms while the older ones were running alongside their parents hand-in-hand. Screams rent the air and the look of terror was clear on the faces of all. Far behind, coming down from the mountain range, he could just make out their pursuers. He could tell, even from this distance, that they were not of his nation, who were all on foot and wore clothing of very thin and light material.  Those in the mountains were mounted and were adorned with heavy, black armor. Upon seeing his pursuers so close, he began to despair. There was no way they would all make it now.

 

            He quickly turned and began running again towards the edge of the precipice, and seconds later, he skidded to a halt as he reached the ledge. He was filled with hope and dread at the same time.  Down below, anchored just off the shoreline were hundreds and hundreds of gleaming white ships just as they had been promised.  Unfortunately, it looked as if there was no way to get to them.  The two-hundred-foot-high cliff face was almost completely vertical. And, even if they’d had ropes long enough to reach down to the beach, they’d never get down before their pursuers arrived.

 

“We trusted you, Ghloirinevellienn,” Gaineamh whispered to himself. 

 

More and more of his race began arriving at the cliff’s edge, and as they saw the predicament, they either began to wail or turn to him for guidance. 

 

_“Why are they looking to me?”_ he thought to himself. _“I’m not my father.”_

He pried his son from his neck and handed him to Darab and yelled, “Stay here! I’ll be back!”  He then turned and began running along the cliff’s edge, hoping to find any kind of access down towards the beach.  After five minutes of searching, he found a narrow, winding pathway that zig-zagged back and forth dozens of times along the cliff’s face. He thought that, though it would be hazardous, they would be able to descend to the beach on the path, but he shook his head as he realized that it would literally take days for everyone to make it down. The path was too narrow for more than one person to traverse. They would have to go down one at a time in a very long, single-file line. He looked back towards the mountain range to see that their pursuers had now reached the plain.  Given that they were mounted, they would arrive shortly, and then death or – even worse - captivity would follow.

 

Gaineamh rushed back to his family and grabbed Darab by the hand.

 

“Come!” he yelled at both her and everyone around him.

 

When he arrived at the pathway, he took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You must get our sons on a ship. Promise me.”

 

“What about you?” she asked with pleading in her eyes and voice.

 

“I’ll come, but I must help my father. Now, go!”

 

Darab wanted to argue, but she had her sons to think of. She turned and slowly began making her way down the narrow, treacherous path towards salvation, carrying both of her sons in her arms.

 

Gaineamh ran towards the west, back towards the mountain range, but it was nearly impossible as more and more of his race arrived at the cliff’s edge.  He finally began roaring at the top of his lungs, “Make way! Make way!” as he sprinted through them, hoping that his yells would make them scatter. He had to get to his father, who he knew would be bringing up the rear of the nation.  His father had tasked him to lead them to the ocean, and he’d done that, but to no avail it seemed. It looked like, at best, a thousand of them would make it to the ships before their mounted pursuers cut them down like wheat during the harvest.

 

Ten minutes later, he saw his father, Creideamh.  He was, with his head bowed, down on both knees in the middle of the plains facing the west, facing their enemy.

 

“Father!” Gaineamh cried has he ran up to him. “We’ll never -”

 

But, he was knocked from his feet as balls of fire suddenly fell from the sky.  The fiery meteorites impacted the land causing giant explosions of dirt and rock to fill the air.  As more and more fell from the heavens, the plains caught fire, eventually all the way from the north to the south.  And they didn’t stop falling.

 

Three days later, Gaineamh was standing in the stern of one of the last ships to depart.  It had just set sail and was only a few hundred yards from the shore. With his wife and children next to him, he was staring back towards the cliff’s face and up towards the plains.  And, then, suddenly, the meteorites ceased to fall.

 

oOo

 

_Velen, June 1272_

 

            “I’m suicidal? Well, you’re the one who’s dead, bitch.”

 

            The witcher pulled upward on the hilt of his silver sword – the one pinning the Crone’s head to the ground – and after searching the hag’s corpse, he stalked towards the tallest of the three wooden buildings of the “orphanage” located in the middle of Crookback Bog.   He ignored the dozen or more swamp monsters that were circling the just-finished battle.  He had a solitary focus – to find the wolf-head medallion.  With a swift kick, the partially-open, front door flew inward on its hinges, slamming against the rotted, wooden wall, causing the entire shack to shudder.   The first floor was composed of a large, central space, and since the sun was just setting, the room was dimly lit, and shadows filled its corners.  On the wall opposite the front entrance was a cultish shrine consisting of dozens of lit candles, human ears, primitive dolls, and a large, partially destroyed tapestry – a tapestry woven of human hair that covered the entire wall.   The monster-hunter headed to his left, to the first shelf he saw and began searching through bowls and the other ornaments and knick-knacks that cluttered the lair of the Ladies of the Swamp. 

 

With each passing moment, the frustration of the normally stoic man grew until he began prowling the interior in a semi-frantic state.  The witcher’s eyes spotted a small, wooden chest – partially hidden by a stool – to one side of the room.  Dropping his sword to his feet, he picked up the locked chest and, with a guttural yell, raised it above his head and threw it to the floor, where it splintered into pieces.  A few beams of the dying sunlight found their way through the open door of the shack and twinkled off a silver object hidden within the wooden debris.  The weary warrior bent down to pick up the trinket. With his mission complete, seven days’ worth of exhaustion came flooding in on the white-haired man and dropped him to his knees.   

 

            And, then, the witcher closed his eyes, bowed his head, and wept - or, at least as much as a witcher was capable.  The monster-slayer lost track of time as he knelt on the floor of the shack, but, eventually, he slowly opened his eyes and looked down at the School of the Wolf medallion in his hand – the very medallion that had once been worn by both his mentor and father figure, Vesemir, and by his adopted daughter.  No tears filled his eyes, but a single, barely audible sound escaped from his throat as he exhaled.

 

             “Ciri,” he whispered. He almost choked on the name. 

 

While the mutagens taken in witchers’ youth did cause mutations in their bodies, they did not, contrary to popular belief, truly strip witchers of their ability to experience human feelings. Or, at least, they had not done so with Geralt of Rivia, and in that moment, waves of emotions roiled inside the aging man – sorrow, guilt, anger, and frustration.  Sorrow – because he knew that he would never again hear Ciri’s laugh; he would never again feel her slender arms hug his neck.  Gone was the chance of ever passing on his experience and wisdom to her as they walked the Path together. Guilt and anger – because he still believed that he could have done something to prevent her death.  Frustration – because he simply didn’t know what to do with all of these feelings now.   Vengeance Geralt knew well, and a quest for such would have allowed him to deal with or, at least, ignore the storm of emotions inside of him.  Ending the life of Vesemir’s killer had been an incredible catharsis for Geralt, but vengeance - Geralt preferred the word “justice” - was simply not a possibility in this case.  He couldn’t exact retribution against his twenty-one-year-old daughter’s killer for she had, just a week ago, defeated the White Frost herself.  But, she had also lost her own life in doing so.  

 

            The witcher had, therefore, come to Crookback Bog with a two-fold mission.  He wanted to retrieve the medallion for it was the only thing left of Ciri’s in this world.  And, secondly, he also had unfinished business with Weavess – the Crone who had ripped the medallion from Ciri’s neck in a prior battle.  Since he couldn’t execute vengeance against the White Frost, then he had been forced to pick an alternate object for his wrath.  But, now…now that he had achieved both his goals, he found that they didn’t give him the satisfaction and release that he’d been hoping for.  Killing the Crone – while justified – still didn’t bring Ciri back to life.  And the rage was still there.

 

            “Damn it, Ciri.  It should have been me,” he rasped out.

 

            The witcher breathed in deeply, but it felt like a knife to the lungs.  The hollowness in his chest seemed alive, as if it was eating him from the inside. He closed his eyes and began squeezing the silver, wolf-head medallion as hard as he could – as if somehow that would help him fight off the anguish.  His senses screamed as the sharp metal points on the medallion pierced the flesh of his fingers.  But, he kept squeezing harder and harder, increasing the pain.  As the blood began dripping off his fingerless gloves, Geralt, strangely, felt some kind of relief.  He wasn’t even consciously aware of it, but his inner turmoil seemed to decrease in intensity the harder he squeezed.  Geralt opened his eyes to see a single drop of blood fall to the floor. With his enhanced senses, the dark red orb appeared to fall as if in slow motion.  When it hit the wooden slats of the dead Crone’s shack, it sounded like a loud clap, which snapped him out of his thoughts and into the present moment…and the witcher’s instincts kicked in. ~~~~

 

            Instantly, Geralt stepped on his silver sword laying at his feet while simultaneously slamming the floor with Aard Sweep, an enhanced version of Aard, one of his five witcher Signs or “magical” abilities.  Immediately, three approaching bog creatures that had entered the shack flew backwards, along with furniture, dishes, potted-plants, and other detritus in all directions. In one, fluid motion, the monster-slayer scooped up his sword, somersaulted towards the nearest ghoul and, then, rising to his feet, pierced the heart of the still-supine creature.  With his back to the other two necrophages, he immediately sidestepped to his left to avoid a lunging alghoul, which had just swiped a claw through the air where Geralt’s spine had been a split-second before.  With a downward, diagonal stroke, he bisected the attacking monster right through its mid-section and then used the momentum of his killing blow to spin toward the third beast. He looked past the monster and saw a half-dozen drowners nearing the front door. Having been in the shack before, Geralt knew that this was the only entrance.  If he could keep the rest of the monsters outside, then he could use that one entryway as a choke point to keep from being surrounded.  He pulled a Dancing Star bomb from his belt and tossed it towards the front door.  The bomb hit the lead drowner and exploded in a fiery ball, scorching all of the necrophages and pushing them away from the entrance.  Their screeches of agony brought a small sneer to the witcher’s face.  As their bodies burned, the fury inside of him grew hotter.

 

            The remaining ghoul on the inside of the house was momentarily distracted by the explosion behind it and turned its head away from its prey.  A split-second was all that the witcher needed.  He hopped forward toward the beast and removed its head with a strike to the neck.  Geralt then looked up toward the entrance to see fiery flames licking the door and part of the doorframe.

 

            “Should’ve used Northern Wind,” the witcher growled to himself, referring to one of his non-flammable bombs.

 

            Geralt cast a standard Aard Sign toward the entrance.  The explosive, telekinetic force blew the damaged door off its hinges, but it also doused the flames.   With the fire extinguished and with his back covered, the experienced fighter knew the situation was in hand.  Drowners, ghouls, and alghouls, not being rational-thinking creatures, lacked the ability to strategize so he readied himself to simply exterminate each monster one-by-one as they entered the shack. 

 

            “Who’s next?” he asked in his gravelly voice as the howls of the beasts filled the night air. This gods-forsaken world would feel his pain.

 

oOo

 

            Ten minutes later, the bloody corpses of bog-creatures littered the area near the front door of the shack.   Geralt moved to the center of the “orphanage” and surveyed his surroundings.  Even without the full moon, he could have easily seen general features in the dark due to his “cat” eyes - effects of the mutagens taken as a child. While he could hear creatures a quarter-mile away, he neither saw nor sensed any in the vicinity.

 

            He suddenly remembered the first time he’d set foot in the miserable swampland known as Crookback Bog.  It was just a few weeks back while searching for Ciri.  Memories of names and faces started rushing in, and he slowly shook his head as he realized just how much death and pain had occurred in the bog because of the Crones who had lived there. 

 

            “So much evil here. It should all burn.”

 

oOo

 

            Geralt mounted his trusty mare as flames consumed the buildings around them, the fire causing shadows to dance throughout the surrounding swamp.

 

“I hope you got everything, Roach,” the monster-slayer said to his horse, “‘cause we’re never coming back.” 

 

The witcher didn’t know where he was headed but knew he had to stay on the Path.  As long as he had monsters to battle, then he wouldn’t have to face the monster that lurked within.  

 

oOo

_Vizima, Temeria; August 1272_

 

            Emperor Emhyr var Emreis was not having a good day.  The truth was that the man also known as “The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes” wasn’t having a very good summer.  It had all started two months ago when Philippa Eilhart had informed him that Ciri was missing, presumed dead.  The sorceress, however, didn’t have any details to give nor did she know exactly where the witcher – who did have details - had gone.  He had mentioned something to Yennefer about Crookback Bog prior to leaving the island of Undvik but nothing else. Therefore, it had taken the Emperor’s men two months to track down the girl’s adoptive father and escort him to Vizima, the Emperor’s temporary residence for the duration of the war against the North.  

 

            As he watched the White Wolf being escorted into his chambers, the Emperor was genuinely surprised. He may have disliked the impudent witcher, but he’d always held some begrudging respect for his professionalism and for his lethal capabilities. But the man currently standing in front of him had an appearance that was more akin to a drunken vagabond than a highly trained killer.  He looked like he was barely capable of tying his own boots. The witcher’s hair – normally pulled neatly back into a ponytail – was long and loose, hanging down to his shoulders.  His beard looked scraggly and very unkempt. And the Emperor didn’t even realize it was possible for a witcher’s cat eyes to be bloodshot, but Geralt’s certainly were. And the smell – it was as if alcohol was seeping from the witcher’s pores.  Which, in truth, was actually a good thing as it served as an unintended blessing of masking the witcher’s horrible body odor.

 

oOo

 

            “Did she…say anything about me?” the Emperor asked in his elegantly baritone voice after hearing an abridged summary of the events surrounding his biological daughter’s presumed death. Only the fact that her body had never been found kept her death from being confirmed.

 

            “Not a word. To her, you were just some guy who knocked up her mom – nothing more.”

 

The witcher’s face remained neutral, but the derision in his voice was unmistakable.

 

            The Emperor swallowed hard and then, with eyes narrowed and jaws clenched, turned his back on the Butcher of Blaviken. “You are dismissed, Witcher. I wish to never see you again. Understood?”

 

            “The feeling’s mutual…Duny.”

 

The Emperor spun around, half-expecting the witcher to be walking out the door.  Instead, the bounty hunter stood deathly still in the middle of the room, his eyes boring into those of the most powerful man on the Continent.  After several long seconds of silence, a strange look crossed the witcher’s face - the Emperor could have sworn it was a look of disappointment - and then the White Wolf turned and exited the chambers.

 

            The Emperor seethed.  The witcher’s last comment a reminder that the Emperor owed his life to the monster-slayer. It stung his pride to know that he owed any man anything, much less his very existence to a mutant like Geralt of Rivia.

 

            The news of Ciri’s death was quite unwelcome. It certainly destroyed the Emperor’s plans of abdicating the throne.  The truth was that, after decades of leading the Empire, he was exhausted.  He may have been the most powerful man on the Continent, but he felt the accompanying weight of the responsibility that came with that position every day.  He knew that emperors typically only left their post via death – occasionally of natural causes but more often by assassination. The only exception was when they had a strong successor already lined up.  Ciri was to be that successor. With the power she possessed from carrying the Elder Blood and with his mentoring in the area of diplomacy and leadership, she could have and would have easily replaced him as ruler of the planet’s greatest empire and continued both his and the nation’s legacy far into the future. And the Emperor was getting to an age where his legacy was of utmost importance.  He had already done more for the Nilfgaardian Empire than any of his predecessors.  Through military conquests and political alliances, he had pushed the nation’s boundaries further than they’d ever been.   His was easily the largest and most powerful empire the planet had ever seen.  And it was all due to him.  Knowing that Ithlinne’s Prophecy stated that Ciri’s offspring would eventually rule the entire world, his plan had been to turn the reins of the Empire over to her.  Then, his legacy would be set. He would be forever known as the architect who had built the foundation for the world’s most formidable empire.  But as it turned out, Ithlinne, the Elven oracle, didn’t accurately predict everything after all.

 

oOo

 

            Geralt strapped his swords to his back as he walked out of the Vizima palace, and for some reason, the Crone’s last words came back to him, “I can smell the stench of suicide on you.”  That wasn’t entirely accurate, but it was close. The truth was that, while he didn’t want to kill himself, he no longer really cared if he lived.  When the dozen Nilfgaardian soldiers found him – drunk - in a bar in Gors Velen, he briefly contemplated drawing his blade against them all. But he reconsidered when he realized that he’d get the opportunity to confront the Emperor.  He loathed the man and everything he represented. While Emhyr may not have killed Ciri himself, he had been, in Geralt’s opinion, one of her truest enemies. An enemy who, just like Avallac’h, just like the Wild Hunt, just like Philippa Eilhart and the rest of the sorceresses of the Lodge, had neither respected her nor viewed her as a person, but rather as a tool to be used for their own purposes. The Emperor, like the rest, had only wanted her for her special powers and for nothing else. They had not loved her, cared for her, been willing to die for her. 

 

            Geralt had taken satisfaction in insulting the Emperor, and there was a small part of him that had hoped the insults would goad the man into a physical attack.  While the guards had taken his swords, they had missed the knife hidden in his boot, and he would have loved to have driven it through the Emperor’s throat.  He thought that calling the Emperor “Duny” would have done the trick. It was the name that Emhyr had used decades ago when he was a freakish monster, an affliction caused by a dark curse – a curse that was lifted only with the witcher’s help.  The White Wolf doubted that he had been able to keep the look of disappointment off his face when he had realized that Emhyr wasn’t going to take the bait. Obviously, the Emperor’s sense of self-preservation had prevailed.  The Emperor was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them, and attacking a witcher – no matter how hung-over – was a quick way to the grave.  Geralt honestly didn’t know why he hadn’t taken out his knife and killed the bastard anyway.  He wasn’t thinking clearly these days. He hadn’t been thinking clearly for quite some time now. He needed a drink, he thought to himself.

 

oOo

 

            Blood was running out of the witcher’s nose, but he had smile on his face – an eerie, blood-filled smile.  His head snapped back as a hard fist struck his cheekbone, and while the force of the blow caused him to take a step back, he remained standing.  He turned to face his attackers again, shook his head slowly, and grinned some more.

 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he stated as blood dripped off his lower lip and into his beard, a beard now streaked red.

 

            “To hell with it, Lars. Let’s go. The freak’s insane. He’s not even defending himself,” said one of the three men standing in front of Geralt.

 

The three had been beating on the witcher for the last five minutes.  Each time that they had thought he couldn’t take any more, he’d rise slowly from the ground and stand again before them. Two of the men were spent – covered in sweat and breathing heavy, having exhausted themselves in a flurry of punches and kicks in the first few minutes.  Only Lars seemed to have any energy left.

 

            After leaving the palace, Geralt had started a search for vodka.  Having been in Vizima before, he quickly found a local tavern, bought a bottle, and began drinking in solitude.  His mood grew fouler and more morose with each shot consumed.  Now that he was no longer in the Emperor’s presence, the disdain he felt for the man and for the rest of the rotten world began to turn inward. He looked across the tavern and caught his reflection in the dark pane of glass of a nearby window. His eyes bore into his own. As he continued to stare at his own visage, he raised his mug of vodka in a mock salute.

 

            “To the incompetent screw-ups of the world,” he said to himself before draining the contents of the cup.

 

            A short time later, his mental self-flagellation was interrupted. As was the custom, it didn’t take long for three belligerent locals, with their sense of invincibility bolstered by alcohol and their common sense hindered by the same, to confront the witcher.

 

            “Your kind’s not wanted here, freak,” one stated with a sneer on his face.

 

            Geralt knocked back another shot and looked at the three men standing in front of him. He nodded his head, his lips starting to form into a faint but very predatory smile.  “Let’s head outside, shall we?”  

 

            Nowhere between the table and the front door did the witcher make the conscious decision to simply take the three men’s thrashing, but as he was standing in front of them in the night air, a voice in his head said, _“You deserve this.”_   And at that point, he had simply dropped his hands to his side.

 

            After watching the three men walk off into the darkness, he limped back into the tavern and returned to his table.  He had some potions that would have eased the pain, but he chose not to take them.  Instead, he grabbed his bottle of vodka and muttered to himself, “Now, where were we?”

 

oOo

 

            Three days later, Geralt, out of both vodka and coin, decided to head north towards the Pontar River and the war front. Traditionally, both areas were rife with monsters - river basins because even monsters need water, and war fronts because of the battlefields full of corpses. Maybe he’d be able to find a contract for a beast that was either threatening or simply infringing upon civilization.  He hoped so because a contract meant money; and money meant alcohol; and alcohol meant dulled memories.

 

            He traveled on the main road out of Vizima towards the small city of Rinde, which was located just north of the Pontar.  Just past where the road forked, with one branch heading to the town of Anchor, was a battlefield, but the witcher could tell that whatever skirmish occurred there happened several months ago. Even though he could easily detect the odor of death in the air, he saw neither any corpses nor any of the common scavengers of carrion – vultures and ghouls. What he smelled was the stench of blood soaked into the soil. Though the field looked picked clean, he still dismounted Roach and began walking slowly in a zigzag pattern, using his witcher senses to find any spare coins.  After two hours, he had found sixteen orens. He knew deep down that what he was doing was pretty pathetic, but what the hell did he care.  He now had enough coin that he could buy some booze.  He just hoped he could make it to Rinde before all of the taverns closed.

 

oOo

 

_Warning to those traveling between Rinde and Murivel. Something or someone has been attacking any and all travelers along the road, including merchants’ caravans.  If anyone believes that they are brave enough to both investigate and capture or kill said outlaw, then speak to Jacque at the Codpiece Inn. Everyone else should avoid that roadway with extreme prejudice – unless you’re a Black One, then go right ahead._

Geralt had read this potential contract on a notice board in the town of Rinde several hours before sunrise. He, in fact, had not arrived in town with any taverns still open for business.   The Redanian army had burned the bridge spanning the Pontar in an effort to keep the Nilfgaardians on the southern, Temerian side of the river.  It had, therefore, taken the witcher quite some time traversing the river’s banks in the darkness until he could find a suitable place for him and Roach to cross – a place that wasn’t too wide, where the current wasn’t too strong, and where there were no creatures lurking below the surface of the pitch-black water. Geralt may not have particularly cared if he lived or died, but he didn’t want to lead his horse unnecessarily into harm’s way.  She hadn’t done anything to deserve that.

 

The Codpiece Inn, located on the banks of the Pontar, was famous for its cold ale and, naturally, for its fried catfish – because, as everyone knows, the catfish is the king of the Pontar.  The inn got its name from an abnormally large, dented metal codpiece that hung above the fireplace mantel, placed there over a century ago by the inn’s original owner – a twenty-year old ruffian by the name of Karlech Blenham.  He had grown up an orphan on the streets of Tretogor, and he had quickly learned the rules of survival – discreetly nicking food and other goods from unsuspecting shopkeepers, discerning which of the city’s fences were the most trustworthy, evading the equally-untrustworthy watchmen and constables, and sleeping with a shiv in hand each night in the dangerous back alleys of the city’s dingiest neighborhoods.  Young Karlech had aspirations of one day leaving that life behind and becoming a respectable businessman, but how was a juvenile delinquent to achieve such a dream? The official story was that teenage Karlech decided to enlist into the Redanian army during one of its many, long ago – and now mostly forgotten – wars, and during one battle, his codpiece was on the receiving end of a particularly vicious blow from a Kaedweni war hammer. Karlech claimed that, while serving his country, he squirreled away virtually every oren of his pay, which he later used to build his tavern. It was an endearing story and a shining example of the “Redanian dream,” that anyone – regardless of status – could through hard work, commitment, and sacrifice, achieve success. However, no citizen of Rinde ever bothered to do the math – to determine just how the meager earnings of a lowly private in the infantry were sufficient to pay for all the materials and manpower needed to build the two-story inn.  But every soldier – especially those fighting on enemy soil - knows that to the victor go the spoils, even if those spoils have to be hidden and smuggled away. Till his dying day, old Mr. Blenham – with a gleam in his eye – never tired of telling the story of how the codpiece “had protected his jewels.”  

 

            It was this inn that the witcher, after reading the contract, approached in the late-night darkness. To the right of the tavern was a small corral with some covered stalls. Geralt led Roach over to a stall and then noticed bales of hay stacked in a corner. He took a couple of handfuls of the dried grass and placed it in a nearby trough, and as his mare ate her breakfast, he removed her tack, grabbed several combs and brushes from his saddle-bags, and began removing caked mud, thistles, and burrs caught in her hair.  After grooming his mount, he knelt down in the dirt beside her and meditated until, two hours later, he heard voices and footsteps coming from within the tavern.

 

The Butcher of Blaviken entered the front door of the inn and scanned his surroundings, his eyes never bothering to look at the codpiece above the mantel since he already knew of its legend. Despite the early hour, there were already a handful of customers present. A man and woman were sitting at a table for two, staring longingly at each other and talking in soft whispers, while two dwarves were walking down the stairs from the second floor – yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes.  A long counter was to the left, behind which leaned a young inn keep, smacking loudly as he munched lazily on an apple, which, in the witcher’s opinion, made him look like an asshole. To the right of the counter were swinging saloon-style doors that, the witcher knew, led to the kitchen.  Even if he hadn’t known, the aroma of frying meat wafting from that direction would have been an obvious clue.  Geralt made eye-contact with the inn keep behind the counter and approached him. He looked to be in his early twenties and was sporting a very thin, wispy mustache.

 

            “I’d like to speak with Jacque. He around?”

 

            “Whew! Gramps, don’t believe in baths?” the barkeep asked with a smirk on his face.  “Smells like you’ve been shacking up with a grave hag.”

 

            The monster-slayer, stone-faced, didn’t say a word. He just peered into the young man’s eyes.

 

            “No? Nothing? Not even a little grin?” asked the inn keep, his smirk disappearing.  “Alright…well, Jacque owns the Inn. He usually gets here right after we open.”

 

            Geralt gave the slightest nod of his head. “Let him know that I’m here about the contract.  And…I’d like to get a bottle,” he stated as he dropped his handful of orens onto the bar top.

 

            The barkeep snorted and his smirk returned.  “The only bottle you could get for that would be a bottle of piss.”

 

            The witcher didn’t return the man’s smile this time either. He just breathed in deeply and then exhaled very slowly. “Just give me vodka – however much that will buy.”

 

            “Kind of early for that, ain’t it, gramps?” the young man asked, the smile still on his face.   


            The Butcher of Blaviken looked hard at the barkeep. “I’ll tell you what it’s not too early for.  It’s not too early for a beatin’.”

 

            The man’s smirk immediately fell from his face, and he swallowed hard as he quickly reached for a jug.  He poured two fingers of vodka into a cup and placed it on the counter in front of the White Wolf.  As he turned away, Geralt easily heard him mumble, “Should have known the mutant wouldn’t have a sense of humor.”

 

            Immediately, Geralt snapped his left hand out, grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him backwards while simultaneously twisting the man’s body and slamming his head onto the bar.  The witcher’s right hand was roughly pressing the left side of the man’s face into the wooden countertop.  The entire inn had gone silent at the display.  The only sounds the witcher could hear were the man’s heart thumping in his chest and the crackle and pop of frying food coming from the nearby kitchen.

 

            The White Wolf leaned over the squirming inn keep. “That’s right. I am a mutant…and the most dangerous wretch you’ll ever meet.” The witcher’s voice was barely above a whisper.  “So, it would serve you well not to call me names…cause that hurts my feelings. And, then…I might just have the urge to hurt you back. So, here’s some advice – until I leave this place, don’t speak to me; don’t look at me; in fact, don’t even think about me…cause this mutant freak can read your mind.  Understood?”

 

The barman did his best to nod his head despite it being in Geralt’s vice-like grip.

 

“Good morning,” suddenly came a friendly voice from behind.  “It looks like you’re none too pleased with my employee.”

 

The witcher turned his head slightly to view the newcomer out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Just instilling some wisdom.”

 

The newcomer laughed. “Interesting method.  And what’s the lesson for today?”

 

“Be careful who you insult.”

 

The man’s eyes shifted from the witcher down to the barkeep.

 

“Jakob, now why in the world would you insult a witcher?  I knew you had shit for brains, but…really?” the man trailed off, just shaking his head.  “Please forgive Jakob, Master Witcher.  He possesses not a shred of common sense…and compounds the problem by having delusions that others find his sense of humor charming.”

 

The witcher turned back to Jakob and then lifted him up so that their noses were just inches apart.  “View yourself a comedian?  Suggest you learn to gauge your audience better, boy.  Now…disappear.”

 

Upon being released, Jakob scampered into the kitchen, leaving the saloon doors swinging back and forth in his wake.

 

The witcher turned to face Jakob’s employer.  “You must be Jacque.”

 

“Indeed.  And given the swords on your back, you must be here about the contract.” 

 

After getting a nod from the witcher, Jacque pointed to a nearby table. “Let’s talk business.” After the two sat down, the owner sighed and began, “I don’t know what happened, but I do know Jakob so…I’d like to apologize for whatever he did or said.

 

The witcher answered with a slight nod of his head.

 

“He’s my sister’s eldest,” continued Jacque, “and as the patriarch of the family, I feel responsible to help her, and no one else in town will employ him. He seems to have a gift for…rubbing people the wrong way. He’s been begging me for a while to work the counter, but…looks like I need put him back to mucking the stalls again,” he ended with a rueful smile.

 

Geralt simply stared at the inn’s owner and then asked, “Why tell me any this?”

 

Jacque shrugged. “A man is judged by the company he keeps – by the men he employs. And I need for you to solve my problem.  Therefore, I need for you to be willing to accept the contract. You’ll be less likely to do business with me if I lose respect in your eyes due to young Jakob’s lack of decorum.”

 

The White Wolf shook his head. “Respect’s got nothing to do with it.  If I only took contracts from people I liked, I’d never work. The only thing that matters is – do you have the coin?” His eyes then shifted to the bar where his cup was tipped over.  “That, and…the two shots of vodka I paid for.”

 

Jacque smiled. “Not a problem, Master Witcher.”

           

After getting as many details of the attacks – which wasn’t much – from Jacque and then haggling over the price of the contract, the witcher took off east out of Rinde along the solitary road toward Murivel. In his saddlebag was a bottle of vodka – both a gesture of goodwill and a “retainer” on the contract from Jacque. Within a quarter of an hour, the landscape changed and turned into a moderately dense forest, with overhanging branches covering the majority of the road. The witcher took this into account and figured that whatever he was pursuing probably wasn’t a flying beast since a winged creature would have trouble maneuvering through the thick canopy of the trees in order to attack any travelers. 

 

Less than an hour later, his witcher’s senses began to detect evidence of the attacks.  The first indicator was the sound of aggressive beasts.  To Geralt, it sounded like the growls of wild dogs or perhaps wolves.  As he kept riding, he caught the distinctive scent of blood and decayed flesh, and, then, he came around a slight bend in the road, looked ahead and saw a pack of dogs – perhaps six to eight – roaming to and fro. Near the pack were two partially destroyed wagons.  One was lying on its side and the other was tipped towards the ground due to a missing front wheel.  There was also quite of bit of merchandise still in the wagon and scattered upon the road.  Some of the packages looked like they’d been ripped open – possibly by the canines.   The witcher would have to investigate further, but the fact that the merchants’ goods hadn’t been taken was a strong clue that this was not the work of any guerilla Scoia’tael unit.  Typically, the elves and other non-humans would take anything left over after their attacks as the spoils of battle.  Of course, he, also, thought it unlikely the Scoia’tael were the culprits given that they were virtually non-existent these days. That said, he didn’t believe the wild dogs were the initial attackers, either.  They simply weren’t capable of causing the kind of damage to the wagons that he was seeing.

 

            Geralt dismounted his mare still quite a distance away from the wreckage.  He calmly surveyed the scene, exhaled deeply, and then slowly headed towards the pack. He made no attempt at stealth but simply walked right down the middle of the road, holding three Grapeshot bombs in his hands. As soon as the dogs noticed his presence, he threw the three explosives in their direction in quick succession. While the incendiary devices were still in the air, he took off sprinting towards the overturned wagon.  When the bombs exploded, chaos ensued.  Shrapnel and fire flew in all directions, shredding and burning most of the canines.  The witcher hurdled a couple of dogs and then leapt up onto the side of the tipped-over wagon, standing a good five feet above the ground.  He caught his balance on the wobbly wagon, and then he grabbed a Devil’s Puffball bomb and threw it towards three dogs that were below him, jumping and snapping at his feet.  As poison filled the air and affected the beasts below, he skipped backwards along the eight-foot long wooden plank to get out of the poisonous explosion’s range.  At that point, only two of the eight mutts were still standing, but even they were foaming at the mouth and bleeding from their eyes, obvious effects of the poisonous gas.  He pulled his crossbow from his back and calmly shot them in the head, essentially ending the attack.  A few in the pack were lying on the ground, whimpering in pain. Geralt hopped off the wagon railing, drew his steel sword, and swiftly ended their misery.

 

            The monster-slayer scanned the area.  Fifty yards ahead, along the road, he saw another damaged wagon.  Past it, he could see another.  The beast – whatever it was – had obviously attacked multiple merchants carrying their goods. The witcher couldn’t see or detect any human corpses in the area.  Nor could he see any horses – alive or dead – in the vicinity either.  They had either run off or been killed and carried off. The lack of bodies made the witcher think that this unknown beast was killing for the sake of food and not simply out of protecting its territory. He also realized that the monster was, obviously, taking the corpses elsewhere to eat them, as there were no remains to be seen along the road.

 

            The White Wolf started investigating the ground for clues, but the process was complicated because the wild dogs had destroyed and contaminated much of the evidence in the area.  Eventually, on the north side of the road, he found a trail of blood and several, very large footprints. The tracks appeared to be from some type of troll, but Geralt was confused by their size. As he was looking downward towards the forest floor, his eyes were drawn to Ciri’s wolf head medallion that he kept tied to the belt loop of his trousers. He grabbed it with his left hand and lifted it from where it usually hung against his upper thigh. He held it at waist level, staring down at the memento, with a torrent of memories running through his mind.

 

            The witcher stood silent and still, lost in thought, for quite some time.  He then breathed deeply and lifted his eyes from the medallion.  As he dropped it to his side, he whistled for Roach.  His mare dutifully approached her master, and Geralt stood in front of her, petting her nose and jaw. After several minutes, he walked to her side, reached beneath her, and unbuckled his saddle. He removed it and the horse blanket, carried them over to the side of the road, and dropped them behind a tree.  He then returned to Roach and removed the bridle. He looked into her eyes and petted her some more.

 

            “You’ve been a great horse…and a great friend.  Always loyal. I couldn’t have asked for more.” He then sighed heavily. “Take care of yourself, girl.” 

 

            After a final rub of his hand along the mare’s neck, the witcher turned back toward the trail of blood and footprints and slowly followed it into the woods.

 

oOo

 

Author’s Note:

If you have suicidal thoughts due to either depression or severe grief, please know that there is help available. You can have hope for a better future.

 The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt was peering at the largest troll that he’d ever seen in his one hundred years.  It was easily three to four feet taller and a foot broader than any other that the witcher had ever come across.  He wondered at how old it must be. He had followed the trail of blood and footprints through the forest until he’d come to small clearing – a clearing that contained a cave entrance, out of which exited this giant-sized rock troll.  The witcher – now possessing not a shred of self-preservation – had neither applied any pre-battle oils to his sword nor consumed any ability-enhancing decoctions or potions.  He simply began walking slowly – and without caution – towards the beast.  More so, during his approach, he made the decision not to use any of his Signs during the fight.

 

            “May the best monster win,” the Butcher of Blaviken said to himself as he drew his silver sword.

 

             Geralt immediately took a step to his right as the troll, without any warning, launched a small boulder in his direction. He somersaulted forward to get closer to his adversary, and as he came to his feet, he slashed the troll across the chest. He used the momentum of the strike to twist his body into pirouette, and as he was finishing the 360-degree turn, his blade struck again – this time across the monster’s soft belly.  The monster-killer immediately reversed the momentum of his sword and then used a backhanded motion to slice the blade across the troll’s left thigh. The White Wolf had drawn blood three times in the span of a second.  In response, the monster bellowed and turned his back to his attacker - just as the witcher was bringing downward a powerful, two-handed strike.  When the silver sword struck the troll’s hard, rock-like back, the weapon made an unmistakable, sickening sound, which, for just the slightest moment, distracted the witcher.  It was a sound that all witchers knew and that all dreaded.  The troll took advantage of the distraction, immediately counter-attacked, and landed a massive, backhanded blow, which crushed muscle tissue and fractured bone. The powerful force of the punch knocked Geralt through the air at least fifteen feet.

 

The witcher – with a grimace - slowly stood and then began walking backwards to give himself more distance from the troll. He then quickly looked down at his sword.  What he saw made him pause. The inspection revealed that one edge of the blade was severely chipped.  More importantly, originating and spreading out from that damaged edge was a large crack that ran in several directions throughout the metal blade.  The sword was now virtually worthless.  

 

‘ _Just like me,_ ’ he thought to himself. 

 

He looked up at the troll, a good thirty feet away.  Suddenly, the monster pounded its chest with closed fists, let out a roar, and then charged toward Geralt.

 

            “Time to die,” growled the witcher, and then he, too, started running - towards the charging beast.

            As the two combatants collided, three things seemed to happen all at once. Geralt felt the tip of his sword piercing the troll’s abdomen; he heard a loud crack as the blade snapped in half; and then his vision went black as he was bowled over and knocked unconscious by the rampaging monster.

 

oOo

 

            The witcher came to with a jolt, his body tense.  Pain instantly flooded his senses. Looking upward, he saw a few puffy clouds passing across a blue sky, and the smell of death filled his nostrils.  After taking a quick, mental assessment of his body to discover the various locations of his injuries, he sighed deeply, lowered his head back down to the ground, and closed his eyes.

 

            _“Son of a bitch… I’m still alive? Just how pathetic am I? I can’t even die right,”_ he berated himself.

 

            Geralt, indeed, wasn’t dead, and, therefore, he was in desperate need of some healing potions. With a grunt, he rolled over gingerly and got to his knees, his left arm instinctively protecting his damaged torso. It was at that point that he noticed Roach a few yards away, munching on some grass and occasionally eyeballing the witcher. Geralt shook his head slightly at the thought of her loyalty.

 

“Not very smart, Roach…following me,” he said, looking at his horse.  “Faithful, but not very smart.”

 

She always came to him when he called for her and, apparently, even when he didn’t.

            ~~~~

             The monster-slayer’s eyes then drifted downward to see his shattered silver sword laying nearby. There was less than two feet of actual blade attached to the handle so he swiveled his head, scanning the area to find the rest of the silver blade. It was then that he saw the troll’s still body on the ground several yards away.  The witcher was suddenly surprised that he could hear a faint, slow heartbeat coming from the monster. He limped over – the pain causing him to hiss through his teeth - and knelt beside the dying troll, which was lying on its side. He saw the broken blade of his sword protruding from the beast’s belly. The grass below the monster was soaked with blood, but only a small amount was now flowing from the wound. His eyes moved upward and connected with those of the troll.  He saw unmistakable sadness in them.

 

            “Hoooommme,” came a gargled sound from the monster’s mouth.

 

            “Home?” asked the witcher, his brow furrowed in confusion.

 

            The troll continued looking Geralt in the eye and gave a slight nod of his head.

 

“Hoomme,” he stated simply again.

 

            “Are you in pain?” The witcher wasn’t sure why he’d asked the question.

 

            The troll gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.  At that point, there was little that the witcher could do for the troll.  So, he just knelt there next to him looking into his eyes – almost as if sitting vigil.  He could hear the creature’s heart rate begin to slow significantly.

 

            After a few moments, the witcher thought about the troll’s last words.

 

            “Do you want to go home?” Geralt asked.

 

The troll blinked his eyes and gave a small nod.

 

            “Do you mean your cave?”

 

This time a small shake of the head was the answer.  

 

            “Do you…” but the witcher didn’t finish the question as he heard the troll breathe his last and saw the light fade from his eyes.  

 

Geralt didn’t immediately rise but continued to kneel next to the troll, lost in thought. He wondered - if the cave wasn’t it - just where the troll’s true home was.  And he wondered about the “who” associated with this mysterious home.  Geralt knew that the idea of home wasn’t simply a physical location or a place to live.  Home was strongly connected to family and to loved ones. He looked down at the dead troll and found it ironic that this _monster_ , obviously, thought of some place and probably of someone as “home” while he had doubts if he considered any place home anymore.  With Vesemir dead, he wasn’t sure if he even considered Kaer Morhen his home any longer – if he ever did.  And if “Home is where your loved ones are,” then Geralt realized that, ultimately, his home was wherever Ciri was.  

 

            Thinking of Ciri made him recall the last time that he’d seen her.  He could still visualize her walking into the Elven tower on the island of Undvik.  He had tried talking her out of doing so, but he hadn’t explicitly forbidden her from entering the tower to confront the apocalyptic White Frost.  While he hadn’t liked her decision, he had respected her right to make whatever choices she wanted regarding her life.  She may have been his daughter, but she was his _adult_ daughter.  He certainly didn’t appreciate anyone telling him how to live his life so he had given his daughter the same respect and courtesy. And, it was then that something, suddenly, clicked in the witcher’s mind. 

 

_“There’s nothing you could have done to prevent her from facing the White Frost.  She was committed to doing so. Even if you had disregarded her right to make her own decision and had tried to physically stop her, with her power, she could have easily escaped._

_“And she died to save you. She died so that you could live. If you truly respect her, then don’t waste her sacrifice.”_

 

            The witcher lowered his head, suddenly ashamed of how he’d been acting since her death.  After a moment, a look of resolve appeared on his face and he nodded his head to himself.  He realized that, if the roles were reversed and he had died for her, he would want Ciri to keep on living - to pursue a life of joy.

 

            He nodded his head again. “Okay…I’ll stop seeking death - for you, Ciri,” he said with determination.

 

            The witcher looked back down at the troll. He almost laughed, though there was no smile on his face.  He shook his head in amazement at the absurdity of life – that, of all things, it was a troll’s dying words that brought him out of his near-suicidal mindset.  That it was this monster’s desire for home that mysteriously caused a change in his perspective about Ciri’s death.  Because, truly, a shift in perspective was the only change that had happened to the witcher in the last few minutes.  His circumstances certainly hadn’t changed.  Ciri was still dead.  Vesemir was still dead.  He was still hung-over, broke, beaten up, and alone.  But, yet, he was undeniably different now than when he had awoken from his unconscious state less than half an hour ago.

 

            With that thought in mind, the witcher made a decision.  He wasn’t going to remove the beast’s head, as a trophy, and take it back to Rinde in order to collect the reward. Even if it didn’t make any sense, Geralt thought that he owed the troll something – certainly something more than having his corpse beheaded.  It took a while for him to return to the road where his saddle and his potions – located in the saddlebags - were stored.  Over an hour later, after the health-rejuvenation elixir began to take effect and he felt that he’d be able to actually climb aboard his horse, he put the saddle and bridle back onto Roach and rode back to the clearing.  He grabbed a short shovel from his gear and began the very long process of digging a grave large enough for the giant troll.  He wasn’t sure why he had chosen to dig a grave for the monster instead of simply cremating him with his Igni Sign, but there was something healing in the endeavor.  Perhaps, it was simply because, for the first time in two months, he was doing something more meaningful and productive than getting drunk. Possibly, it was because digging the grave was a sign of respect for the troll, and the witcher hadn’t shown respect to anyone – to Ciri, to himself, or to anyone else - in quite some time. Or, maybe, it was because the troll’s grave was symbolic – a memorial to commemorate the death of Geralt’s desire to die. And with that, a new desire to find a reason to live. But regardless of the reasons, the witcher knew it was something that he needed to do.

 

            Much later, after the sun had set beyond the Great Sea and the moon was high overhead, Geralt stood at the edge of the grave with the full bottle of vodka in his hand.  He uncorked the bottle and began pouring the contents out onto the mound of dirt at his feet. Once the bottle was empty, he breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled.

 

            “Wherever you are, troll…I hope you’re home.” 

 

oOo

_Aedirn; October 1272_

            With a thunder-like clap, a ten-foot high, oval shaped ring appeared in a tranquil, verdant meadow.  Out of this fiery-looking portal walked a remarkable woman.  Philippa Eilhart was remarkable for many reasons - her powerful magical ability; her in-depth knowledge of the arcane branches of magic, including polymorphism; her beauty and her impressive figure that, like almost every other witch, she liked to flaunt; and the fact that, despite having had her eyes gouged out by the king of Redania, she was still one of the most dangerous people walking the planet.  That last detail was a testament to perhaps her most remarkable trait – her perseverance.  Despite being the most wanted woman in the Northern kingdoms – thanks to being the object of King Radovid’s hatred – and despite numerous attempts on her life, she was clearly still alive.  This ability to persevere was directly attributed to her incredible cunning.  Of course, it was also her ruthless cunning – and scheming – that had, ultimately, put her in harm’s way in the first place.

 

            With her dark-brown hair twisted into a single braid falling halfway down her back and wearing an emerald-green, ankle-length, form-fitting dress that revealed nearly four inches of cleavage, she walked slowly towards an isolated cottage on the outskirts of the town of Vengerberg, the capital of Aedirn. She sensed and then walked through a magical barrier that was surrounding the cottage, and as she approached the front door, it opened on its own.

 

“Please, do enter, Philippa,” came a regal voice from the interior.

 

The voice belonged to Yennefer, a beautiful, raven-haired sorceress, dressed in a black ensemble. She wore high-heeled, thigh-high, leather boots; skin-tight crushed velvet trousers; and an equally snug top – trimmed in leather - over a white, silk blouse. And, as customary, around her neck was a black choker, adorned with a star-shaped, obsidian pendant.

 

The two women approached, paused as they slowly observed each other’s attire and appearance, and then gave the other a perfunctory kiss on the cheek that was actually several inches short of ever touching skin.

 

“So, Phil, to what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Yennefer after they’d both gotten comfortable in her den.

 

“Yenna, I have _simply_ come to visit my dear friend.  I’ve been concerned about your well-being since Ciri’s death. Though, I must say that, perhaps, I shouldn’t have.  You look _exactly_ the same as you always have.” Philippa smiled, but that meant nothing. If dead men could talk, they’d testify that there was cruelty in her smile.

 

“You are much too kind.  And I adore your new look.  The darkened glasses are quite becoming.  Much more so than the blindfold. It’s a _shame_ that you still haven’t been able to completely reconstruct your eyes.” Yennefer smiled back.

 

“Yes, well…I have been able to restore my vision. I’ll finish the rest soon. Thank you for your concern.”

 

“Truly fascinating,” said Yennefer. “So, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, do tell – why are you _really_ here?”

 

“Very well,” replied Philippa in a clipped tone. “Quite simply, you are needed. You’ve been here, hiding out from the world for months now, but enough is enough. I know that you may still be grieving the death of Ciri and…moping over the witcher, but - and I know that this may sound cold - life moves on.”

 

Yennefer narrowed her eyes.

 

            “I respect you too much to treat you as if you are weak and fragile. You are a strong and powerful sorceress.  You are fully capable of mourning for Ciri and still being a major player in the world’s events.”

 

“Well, well, resorting to flattery.  Things must be desperate.”

 

“Indeed.  The war is not going as planned for Emperor Emhyr.”

 

Yennefer laughed.  “As if you truly care what happens to Nilfgaard. Besides, he has _you_ , what other sorceress could he _possibly_ need?”

 

“It’s true. Nilfgaard’s fate doesn’t, ultimately, concern me. But the fate of magic does.”

 

Yennefer remained quiet so Philippa continued.

 

“The Empire’s push into Redania has completely stalled. To my – and the Emperors’ - dismay, Radovid – the little shit - is proving to possess a _modicum_ of skill in military strategy.”

 

Given the sorceress’ deep contempt towards King Radovid, it was obvious that this minor compliment was, in actuality, a deep understatement.

 

“Truly interesting.  And this concerns me – and the fate of magic – exactly how?”

 

“Please, Yennefer, don’t feign ignorance. It’s beneath you.  You know quite well that if Nilfgaard fails and is forced to fall back to south of the Yaruga, then Radovid won’t simply allow the old kingdoms to reform.  He’s already conquered Kaedwen. There would be nothing to stop him from swallowing up an already defeated Temeria, Cidaris, Brugge…and Aedirn.  Given his hatred of all things magical…well, we simply cannot allow him control of the northern third of the Continent.”

 

Yennefer sighed. She’d had her fill of wars and politics. Because, really, after decades – maybe centuries – of sorceresses’ plotting and machinations, what had it really changed?  The magic users’ place in the world was virtually no different and no safer now than it had been a century ago.  Yennefer had come to realize that there were more important things in life than the constant political maneuvering and power-plays that Philippa so obviously relished. Things like – then, she stopped, shaking her head slightly, not wanting to think about it all again.

 

“Philippa, surely the other sorceresses of the Lodge are sufficient.  I can’t imagine -”

 

“The Lodge is dead, Yenna,” Philippa interrupted.

 

Yennefer had the slightest look of shock on her face.

 

“Not all, but…Sabrina, Sile, Keira, and, now, Assire and Rita. And -”

 

“Rita, too?”

 

Philippa nodded gravely.

 

“Not Rita,” she whispered to herself. “The whoresons.”

 

“Indeed. And with Triss having fled to Kovir, and Francesca and Ida refusing to leave Dol Blathanna…that leaves just three of us.”

 

Out of all the deaths, that of Margarita Laux-Antille stung Yennefer the most for Rita really wasn’t quite like the rest. She’d harbored no personal aspirations of ruling countries. She’d held no ambitions of gaining political power. Her primary desire was simply to run a school, to pass on the amazing and exciting possibilities of magic to younger generations of sorceresses.  And to do so free from the fear of persecution.  She seemed to genuinely and simply want what was best for “magic.”  Her major fault was, perhaps, that she trusted Philippa too much - just blindly following the witch from Montecalvo’s plans and schemes without ever truly being skeptical of her personal motivations or simply just questioning if there was a better way. That had never been the case for Yennefer.

 

The raven-haired sorceress was quiet for some time. She began looking around her small cottage.  She noticed the romance novel, opened and cover up, resting on the end table by her chair. Her eyes roamed over to one of her lab tables to the small cauldron that was on a low simmer – a cauldron filled with her magical face cream to hide the wrinkles around her eyes.  She observed a light layer of dust on the books of one of her shelves. She looked at the solitary bowl and spoon that she’d left out on her kitchen table from that morning’s breakfast. Finally, she sighed ever so slightly and then brought her eyes up to meet Philippa’s tinted lenses.

 

“Fine. What does ‘magic’ need of me?”

 

oOo

 

_Northeastern Kaedwen, December 1272_

Eskel rode up to the front gate of Kaer Morhen – the stronghold of the witchers from the Wolf School guild - and was surprised to see that it had been repaired. The gate, along with much of the fortress, had been severely damaged the past summer when the Wild Hunt had attacked in an attempt to capture Ciri.  With Vesemir dead and with knowledge that Lambert would never return, that left only one person who would have taken the effort to restore the keep to a functional status, and that thought put a smile on the dark-haired witcher’s face. He called out Geralt’s name several times but to no avail. Eskel sighed, tied Scorpion’s reins to the front gate, and then began the long trek towards a hidden passage on the backside of the keep.  That didn’t dampen his mood, though.  He was now looking forward to seeing his “brother.”

 

            Twenty minutes later, Eskel was inside the keep and could hear very faint grunting sounds.  He followed the noise to the pendulums, where he found the White Wolf training.  He was performing a one-handed handstand, with his sword in his right hand, held out to his side for balance.  The pendulum was swinging back and forth, and as it swung toward the witcher, he would bend his elbow to lower his torso, while at the same time pivoting his entire body a quarter turn and spreading his legs so that the pendulum would pass in between them. Once it had swung back, he’d press himself upward, reversing the process and returning to his original, vertical position.  He kept this up until the pendulum finally lost its momentum. At which point, he began executing one armed, full body presses with his feet still above his head. Eskel stopped counting after Geralt hit twenty repetitions.  Geralt’s physical abilities never ceased to amaze Eskel.  While he believed himself to be the White Wolf’s equal in swordsmanship and to, possibly, even surpass him in Sign intensity, he was no match for Geralt’s strength, balance, reflexes, and the like.  In fact, no witcher was. 

 

            Eskel called out to his friend.  “You know, a real witcher could do that with his weak arm, too.”

 

            Geralt, still upside down, smiled and completed one more repetition.

 

“This is my weak arm,” he replied as he dismounted the pylon, his feet hitting the ground with the grace of a cat.   

 

            The two witchers greeted each other with a handshake and a slap on the shoulder.

 

            “Sorry that I left the gate down, but I didn’t think I’d have any visitors.  Last time we talked, you said you weren’t ever going to return here.”

 

            “Yeah, well…old habits die hard…” Eskel responded with a smile.

 

            “…So make damn-well sure they’re good habits,” they said in unison, mimicking one of Vesemir’s oft-repeated tenets.

 

            “We can talk later,” stated Geralt with a grin.  “Right now, pull your sword.  It’s been a while since I swung my blades at an actual opponent.”

 

            “You’re on,” answered Eskel.

 

            “I’ve got to warn you, though.  Except for when I was making repairs to this place, I’ve spent almost every waking moment in the last four months training.  I’ve even come up with a few new tricks.”

 

            “Is that right?”

 

            “Yeah,” replied Geralt with a smirk. “You’ll be shocked.”

 

oOo

 

            Later that evening, Geralt and Eskel sat out on a balcony, blowing smoke from their pipes upward toward a night sky full of twinkling stars.  Between them was a chimenea, its small flames doing just enough to make bearable the cold, winter air.  They’d been catching up on the last six months of each other’s lives.  It had taken Geralt an hour to summarize the events since May, starting with when he and Ciri had left Kaer Morhen to track down Imlerith – Vesemir’s killer - and ending with his epiphany in the woods east of Rinde. 

 

            “After burying the troll, I came here for no other reason than I needed a new silver sword.  I went down to the armory, picked one out, and then spent the rest of the day cleaning and sharpening it.  When I was done, for whatever reason, I decided to clean and sharpen every sword down there.  And, then, the next thing I know, I’m repairing anything and everything I could in the keep.  Still not even sure why I did it, but…it took me months to make enough repairs on this place to make it secure again.”

 

            “Well, you’ve done a helluva job,” said Eskel. “Vesemir, he…he would’ve been proud.”

 

            Upon hearing his mentor’s name, Geralt turned his head and made eye contact with Eskel.

 

            “He wouldn’t have admitted it,” added Eskel, ‘but still…”

 

            The two witchers continued looking at each other for a moment before they, eventually, nodded their heads.

 

“Yeah,” agreed Geralt, and then he let out a sigh.  “Yeah.”

 

He, then, turned away and looked up into the night sky, taking a long draw on his pipe.

 

After that, they sat quietly for a few moments, smoking and alone with their thoughts.  Eventually, Geralt broke the silence.

 

“You know, I think the repairs were as much for me as for the keep, itself.”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Eskel.

 

“The more that I fixed this old place up, the more motivation I seemed to find…to get back into the habit of training every day.  I think that…just having something productive to do was very beneficial for me.  After killing the Crone, I was on the Path for weeks, unable to find a contract, with nothing to do but drink and wallow in my misery. The hate that I felt for myself seemed to grow everyday…so it was good to be here, to be able to put my negative energy into something useful.”

 

            Eskel nodded in understanding. “I’m really sorry, Geralt. Sorry to hear about Ciri. And I’m sorry that you struggled so much.  I wish you’d sought out a friend – me, or Lambert, or Dandelion.” 

 

            Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“Really? Lambert’s solution would have been to get drunk and bitter, which is what I did and which _clearly_ wasn’t the right choice.  And Dandelion? He would have suggested that whores were the key to getting past my grief. Lots and lots of whores.”  

 

            Eskel laughed. “Too true. Then…I wish you would’ve sought me out.  It wasn’t good for you to try and go through that alone.”

 

            “Eskel, I’m a witcher. We’re always alone. You of all people know that.”

 

            “Right…right,” he said with a small nod. “Well…compared to how you described your state this summer, you seem better now.”

 

            “Yeah…I’m better.  I don’t know if I’d say that I’m ‘good,’ but I _am_ better.”

 

            “What’s keeping you from being ‘good?’”

 

            “Too many questions and too few answers.”

 

            “About?”

 

            “Life, death, the meaning of it all.” ~~~~

            “Oh, that’s it?” joked Eskel.

 

            “Yeah,” Geralt replied with a grin.

 

            “So…what exactly are your questions?

 

            The White Wolf let out a deep breath. “I’ve always said and believed that it was destiny that made me a witcher. Destiny is why I was left at Kaer Morhen as a child.  It’s why I went through the trials and the mutations.  It’s why I’ve been on the Path for almost a century. It’s what brought Ciri into my life. For most of my life, that’s simply how I explained the events of my life. I haven’t really questioned it. But, now, I’m not so sure anymore. I’m starting to believe that there’s something more.”

 

            “What do you mean – that destiny wants you to be more than a witcher or that it’s not actually ‘destiny’ that made you one?”

 

            Geralt shook his head.  “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure myself.  That’s why I’m so confused.” He paused for a moment before asking,  “Do you believe that we – witchers - make any _real_ difference in this world?”

 

            Eskel nodded. “I do. You don’t?”

 

            Geralt shook his head slightly. “I know that, as witchers, we provide a needed service.  But, sometimes I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, that what I do doesn’t really matter – that nothing I do truly matters.  After I pick up a contract, there’s the satisfaction of pursuing the beast and then the exhilaration of the battle. Afterwards, there’s even a feeling of fulfillment or accomplishment. But, eventually, quickly, all of those feelings are replaced by…an emptiness. It’s as if there is something inside of me that longs for…more, something else. Something that being a witcher can’t satisfy.”

 

            “I can understand that.  Sometimes, I feel that way, too. But, when I start thinking that, I’ll remind myself of a conversation I had a long time ago in a tavern in Metinna, sharing a drink with a schoolteacher. We were talking about this very topic - the meaning of life and how sometimes it can seem futile, and he told me a parable that has stuck with me all these decades later. In the story, an older man is walking along the beach after a storm.  The storm and waves had washed up thousands of starfish onto the beach. As he’s walking along, he sees a young boy on the beach, picking up the starfish and throwing them one at a time back into the ocean.  The old guy walks out to the boy and says, ‘Look at all these starfish.  There’s got to be thousands of them.  Do you honestly think that you – by yourself – can make a difference?’  The little boy looks at him, and then bends down, picks up a starfish and throws it into the sea. He says, ‘I don’t know, sir, but I know that I just made a difference to that one.’ 

 

            “And that’s why I think what we do matters.  I, honestly, don’t know how much of a difference that I’m making in the grand scheme of things, but each time I can save a village or a family or even just one person from some dangerous beast, then I’m making a difference for that person. And that’s enough for me.”

 

            Geralt nodded his head. “Hmm, I actually like that story.  Although, if the parable were true to real life, then, a week later, another storm hit and all those starfish that he’d thrown into the ocean simply got washed back onto shore.” 

 

            Eskel smirked. “I’m not sure who’s more cynical – you or Lambert.”

 

            Geralt looked over at his friend.  “You say ‘cynic.’ I say ‘realist.’ And Lambert is _clearly_ more jaded than I am.  He would have claimed that the storm also wiped out the boy’s home and family, as well.”

 

            Eskel laughed. “Yeah...he would.”

 

            After a moment of silence, Geralt continued.  “I see what you’re saying. But, ultimately, from an eternal perspective, what we do here in this life – what _anyone_ does here in this life – only truly matters if there is life-after-death, right?”

 

            “How so?”

 

            “Well, if, when we die, that’s it – our body, mind, and soul simply cease to exist, then, in my humble opinion, it doesn’t ultimately matter how we live out our lives.  Not if we take our eyes off of ourselves for a moment and start looking at this world and this universe from a big picture.”

 

            Eskel nodded.  “I’d agree, but that’s a pretty big ‘if.’  Especially, since we don’t _truly_ know what happens to us when we die.  But, my question is why does ‘ceasing to exist’ even bother you?  I mean, it’s not as if you’d be around to care. In fact, wouldn’t many – if not most - people claim that that would actually be pretty liberating?”

 

            “Liberating? In what way?”

 

            “Well, if we simply cease to exist when we die, then that means that there are no eternal repercussions for how we live, right? We can live ‘good’ lives, ‘bad’ lives, or indifferent lives, and it doesn’t matter. We wouldn’t be accountable to anyone with regards to what we’ve done. We could go through our lives as if this world is nothing but our own personal candy shop – taking and eating whatever we want.  A lot of people would love that.”

 

            “Hell, most people already do live their lives that way.”

 

            “Exactly. So, why does it bother you?”

 

            “You said it yourself.  If that’s the case, then how we live our lives doesn’t matter. The man who lives a virtuous, upright life is no better off than the man of deceit and dishonor.  They both end up in the exact same place. If there is simply ‘nothing’ after we die, then…our lives, from an eternal perspective, are meaningless. And that’s what bothers me.  I want my life to matter.  I want Ciri’s life to matter.  Most of all, I want her _sacrifice_ to matter.  In fact, Eskel, I can’t explain it, but there is something inside of me that tells me that our lives _have_ to matter – that this life _isn’t_ all there is.  That we are part of something…eternal. Like I said earlier, I used to believe that destiny had called me to be a witcher.  But now, there’s something else - something more than destiny calling me to…something. I just don’t know what it is.” 

 

            “Well, if you figure it out, I’d love to hear about it.”

           

            Geralt nodded as he looked out over the lake below.  “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. 

 

He then turned and looked over at his friend. “Thanks, Eskel…for listening.”

 

            “Anytime, Wolf. Anytime.”

 

            After that, the two witchers sat for a while in comfortable silence, drawing on their pipes and staring up at the thousands of stars above them. As the minutes passed and the night air got colder, the wood in the chimenea occasionally crackled and popped next to them, sending fiery embers floating upward, mingling with the thousand-year old starlight.

 

oOo

 

Author’s Note:

If you have suicidal thoughts due to either depression or severe grief, please know that there is help available. You can have hope for a better future.

 The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255.


	3. Chapter 3

_Eastern Lyria; June 1273_

 

            Geralt paused momentarily at the closed, front door of The Mariposa and performed an auditory reconnaissance of the tavern’s interior.  Given the backwoods town he was in, there was no telling the clientele’s level of sophistication. As far as he could discern, the customers sounded subdued.  He could only hear some soft music playing.  There were no sounds of drunken revelry. Of course, that didn’t really mean anything.  The witcher knew that many people turned dumb, mean, and quiet when drunk, as opposed to dumb, mean, and loud.  But regardless of the type, drunks, in his experience, almost always meant trouble - trouble for him and, then, typically, a quick but painful death for them.  Not that the witcher was fearful of trouble.  He could honestly say that he feared no man.  But, he was also at a point in his life where he simply wanted to avoid unnecessary drama if he could. He just didn’t have the patience for it anymore – if he ever did. Therefore, he was relieved that the tavern sounded calm. Calm was good.

 

            As the witcher entered the tavern, the heads of the few patrons sitting near the front door turned his way, but upon seeing the twin blades on his back, they quickly averted their eyes, unease clearly on their faces.  That was fine with the monster-slayer.  He didn’t want any company. He had just spent the last hour cleaning wyvern blood from both his armor and silver sword, and now, after the successful completion of his latest contract, he simply desired a couple of rounds of vodka to help take the edge off. Hopefully, vodka consumed in peace.  He surveyed the interior of the tavern. There was a long bar to his left, a large central room housing a stage for a few musicians and where most of the customers were sitting, and then, to the far right, a back room that was almost completely empty.  Without any small talk, Geralt bought a bottle from the barkeep, headed to a small table in a dimly lit corner, and sat down with his back to the wall, facing the front door and the rest of the inn.

 

            Geralt poured himself a drink and savored the burn as it went down. He scanned the customers in the bar and quickly poured himself another shot.  He then mentally corrected his previous thoughts at the door regarding the inverse correlation of sophistication to trouble.  For he knew that bigotry, hatred, and violence were not limited to the backwoods, to the uneducated, or to the poor.  Some of the vilest individuals he’d ever come across were the most “sophisticated.”  How much murder, rape, incest, and deceit had he encountered in royal courts?  Hell, most of the time, the poor were too busy working, simply trying to put food on the table, to concern themselves with other matters.  It was typically only the rich and privileged – those who could “afford” idle time – who even had the energy to scheme and stir up trouble.  The common man – and the witcher considered himself to be in this category - was simply trying to get through the grind of “today.”

 

            Geralt pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco from an inner pocket and began the methodical preparation.  There was something relaxing in the process, similar to when he sharpened his swords or brewed decoctions.  Perhaps, as creatures of habits, humans simply liked routines.  Geralt pondered why that was.   Did rituals make people feel safe and in control, or did they simply allow them to turn their minds off for a few minutes and forget about the constant stresses of life? He mentally shrugged his shoulders as he finished preparing his pipe and then, with a small snap of his fingers, used the Igni Sign to light the tobacco.  Before he could even inhale his second draw, the witcher was interrupted from his introspection.

 

            “Tayron. Please, don’t. He’ll kill you.”

 

The words were said in a hushed tone, but Geralt had no trouble hearing them clearly.  About fifteen feet away, he saw a woman with straight, brown hair – the color of dark chocolate - pulled loosely back into a ponytail. She was attempting – and failing - to stop a determined man from approaching the witcher’s table. The man had a flushed face, bleary eyes, and an axe in his hand.

 

            The White Wolf felt an immediate urge to kill the armed man. Anyone stupid enough to approach a witcher with a drawn weapon deserved to die.

 

            “It’s all your fault, you bastard,” hissed the man with the axe.

 

He now stood defiantly on the other side of Geralt’s table.  The witcher noticed his cheeks were streaked with tearstains, and he could hear the man’s heart pounding loudly.  

 

            “Of course, it is.  It’s always my fault.” Geralt’s monotone admission seemed to slightly confuse his adversary.  “What exactly did I do this time?” 

 

            “Clara’s dead because of you.” 

 

            “Hmm. The only thing I’ve killed recently is a wyvern. So, unless you named it Clara, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

 

            “You couldn’t have just accepted the contract for 200 coin, could you?   You forced us to scrounge up another fifty, and in the two days it took us to do so, the wyvern killed her. Clara lost her life for fifty coin, you greedy bastard.”

 

            “Witcher’s work is dangerous. I risk my life, and I don’t do it for cheap.” The temptation to draw his blade and strike the man down grew stronger in the White Wolf. “Besides, I see you’re armed.  You should’ve killed the beast yourself. Maybe, then…this Clara would still be alive.”

 

            The man looked, briefly, as if he had been physically slapped, but then he glared at the witcher. 

 

“Well, I was afraid then.  Afraid of dying. We all were.  But, I’m not afraid now,” the man stated with steel in his voice.

 

            “Good, because I’m not afraid of killing you,” the witcher replied coldly.  “Before we begin, one question.  Who was Clara?”

 

            The demeanor of the man suddenly changed.  He lowered his chin to his chest. “She was my daughter,” the man sobbed. 

 

            For five long seconds, Geralt looked intently at the broken man.  His right hand - that had been poised to reach up for his sword - made a quick movement in the air and then rested back down on the tabletop.

 

            The townsfolk in the rest of the bar were watching the scene play out in deathly silence.  Even the musicians had stopped playing their tune. Nobody could hear what was being said in the far corner, but they knew that their neighbor would soon be joining his dead daughter.  Then, to their utter shock, they watched as Tayron placed his axe on the table, sat down across from the witcher, downed the shot glass that was placed in front of him, and began calmly speaking with the Butcher of Blaviken.  After ten minutes, the witcher stood up, placed the bottle in front of the man, gave him a quick nod, and then exited toward the front door.

 

            As he crossed the threshold and stepped out into the night air, Geralt heard a soft voice coming from behind him.

 

“Master Witcher. Wait. Please.” 

 

He turned to see the woman with the ponytail approaching.  She stepped close, and after checking to see that her hands were empty, he focused on her face.  The first thing that struck Geralt was her height.  She was just a handful of inches shorter than him.  A few, loose strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and were framing her face. After watching her reach up and tuck the loose hair behind her ear, he peered into her eyes.  He noticed that they matched the color of her hair.  In the moonlight, they looked almost black.  Seeing the small, crow’s feet wrinkles near her eyes, Geralt guessed the woman to be somewhere in her thirties.  She had a small, faint scar on her chin, which immediately made the witcher think of Ciri. He could detect the lightest scent of vanilla on the woman, and he could tell she was nervous by both her rapid heart rate and by the fact that she was slightly biting her bottom lip. He glanced down and saw that she was wearing an apron.  He hadn’t noticed her when he had walked in, but he assumed she was a waitress in the tavern.

 

            “I, uh…thank you,” she said hesitantly.

 

            The witcher stared at the woman for a moment. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time that he’d heard anyone say those words to him. In the past six months he’d completed many contracts, but at the end of each, there was rarely, if ever, any gratitude. And, frankly, Geralt was fine with that.  He didn’t do what he did out of kindness. He was a professional witcher.  He didn’t need gratitude or adulation – just coin. He nodded his head slightly at the waitress.

 

            The barmaid continued. “Tayron hasn’t been himself these last few days. His daughter was killed by that monster.”

 

            He nodded his head again. “I know,” he stated simply, wondering exactly what this woman wanted from him. He added nothing else. He just stared at the waitress some more. Uncomfortable silences never bothered the witcher. In fact, he knew they could, at times, serve as a strategic weapon – a useful to tool to get people to say more than they intended, simply to fill the silence.

 

            “I…I saw you calm him down, with a Sign. Axii, right?”

 

The witcher furrowed his brows and peered even closer at the woman. _How in the hell would a barmaid in a remote area like this know about specific witcher Signs?_

“Who _are_ you?” he asked, his suspicion now growing. 

 

            “My name is Evie.”

 

            The witcher shook his head slightly. “I don’t mean your name.  Who _are_ you?  You’re obviously no simple barmaid.”

 

            Evie’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second.  “I’m sorry.  I…I shouldn’t have bothered you,” she stammered. “But…again, thank you.”  And with that, she quickly headed back into the tavern.

 

            Geralt instantly found himself with conflicted feelings.  Part of him simply wanted to hop onto Roach, hit the Path, and find the next contract.  However, there was another part that was intrigued by the woman.  Something about her didn’t add up, and if there was one thing the witcher liked, it was solving mysteries.  But, more than the mystery, he also realized that he was attracted to the barmaid, which was an unsettling feeling. He hadn’t been with a woman in well over a year, since prior to Ciri’s death. And, then, for some reason, he suddenly recalled Vesemir and one of his favorite lines, “Geralt, don’t get involved.” The memory of his mentor brought the faintest of wistful smiles to his face. 

 

            “But that’s what I do, Boss,” he said to himself as he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

 

oOo

 

The Mariposa pulsated with energy.  Laughter and dancing filled the bar as the musicians enthusiastically plied their trade – a frenetic blend of drums and lutes, fiddles and flutes.  The song was obviously popular and well-known by the patrons for multiple times throughout the tune – as if rehearsed – they would all punctuate the smoky air with joyful yells of “Hey” and raised fists, before quickly returning to their drinks, jigs, bawdy tales, and well-worn lies. As the liquor flowed, each patron, consciously or not, settled on different outlets by which to release their pent-up energy.  There were those who pursued the opposite sex and all that entailed – the purchase of sweet berry-wine, indiscreet glances at plunging necklines revealing copious amounts of cleavage, a subtle resting of the hand on a forearm, and a flirtatious wink of the eye. Others – mostly women - chose to work up a slow sweat on the dance floor while at several tables, men of various ages engaged in arm-wrestling, accompanied by both shouts of encouragement and groans of disappointment as one prevailed over the other. There were games of dice, cards, and darts, and outside of the tavern, bets were placed as combatants beat each other bloody in battles of pugilistic skills. Every contest, regardless of the type, was followed immediately by money exchanging hands of both the participants and spectators alike. In contrast, the white haired witcher sat alone, carefully watching all of the festivities but participating in none.  He was back in the tavern for another purpose.

 

            As the evening wore on, more and more customers entered the inn.  There was easily four times the number of patrons as the previous night.  Yet, they all gave Geralt – sitting at the same table in the same back corner as the night before - a wide berth.  No one sat within ten feet of him.  He wondered at the obvious increase of customers that evening.  It wasn’t due to the band since it was the same musicians as the night before.  He figured it was simply because he had killed the wyvern that had previously been terrorizing the area.  He’d seen it countless times before. After he completed a contract, after the danger had passed, the collective tension and fear that had been gripping the town would evaporate, to be replaced with a combination of relief and revelry.  However, after he eavesdropped on some conversations, the witcher discovered a second and, perhaps, more relevant reason behind the night’s increased turnout of customers - today was payday. 

 

Once a month, the small town was flooded with all of the miners from the local mining camps.  This was because, on the fifteenth of each month, a merchant dealing in metals and minerals from the capital city would arrive in the town with an empty wagon, a chest full of coin, and a heavily armed escort.  He’d leave with an empty chest and a wagon full of valuable ore. Geralt immediately knew he’d need to be extra wary, for wherever there was an influx of money, there would inevitably be an influx of disreputable folk – muggers, pickpockets, con artists, cardsharps, and worse. 

 

Geralt had been hoping all evening for the opportunity to engage Evie in conversation.  And while she would come by his table from time to time to “wait” on him, she kept the conversation short, courteous, and professional. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really talk.  I have other customers to serve,” is the line she repeated when he tried to draw her out. He noticed that on a few words, an accent would creep through, but it was so faint that he couldn’t quite place it.  Perhaps, if he could ever get her into more than a five second conversation, then he’d be able to identify it.

 

            Midway through the evening, a conversation found the witcher.  An older gentleman, covered in dirt and grime, entered the tavern, ordered a drink, and then approached the witcher’s table. 

 

            “Thank you for killing the beast, witcher.” 

 

            That was now two nights in a row that he’d heard those words of gratitude.  That was a record. Geralt gave a nod of recognition toward the man.

 

            “Care for a game of Gwent?”

 

            “Always,” answered the monster slayer.

 

            The man sat down, and, as they laid out their cards, the conversation continued. “You completed the contract yesterday. I’m surprised you’re still in town.” 

 

            The town was named Tarsus and was nestled at the base of the Blue Mountains, which formed the eastern boundary of the region of Lyria. Two decades past, prospectors had discovered various ore deposits in the mountains.  As news of the valuable discovery spread, mining camps popped up quickly in the area, and the town of Tarsus soon followed in order to supply both goods and diversions to the miners.  The town only existed because the ore existed, and the day that the ore ceased to exist, the town’s demise would quickly follow.  Every citizen and every miner knew it, and that knowledge infused a current of foreboding through the heartbeat of the town. Every person woke each morning wondering if today would be the day that the ore finally ran out.  Because, it was inevitable.  The ore wouldn’t last forever.  And once it ran out, then what would they do?  How would they survive? These unspoken questions caused a persistent level of tension in the region’s populace, and most of them simply didn’t know how to cope with the stresses of life in a healthy way.  Most turned to an excessive amount of booze to find relief, and that was one reason why the tavern that Geralt was currently sitting in was one of two entertainment establishments in the small outpost.

 

            “That’s makes two of us,” Geralt responded. 

 

If not for his interest in the mysterious Evie, he would have left town the previous evening.  Most humans scarcely tolerated witchers and simply viewed them as a necessary evil.  Since witchers were typically deemed as freaks of nature and barely one rung above the beasts they were hired to kill, once the contract was finished, most folk wanted the monster-slayers out of their sight.  Geralt usually obliged them. 

 

“I’m surprised you’d want to talk with me,” the witcher continued.  “Most view my presence like a turd in a punch bowl – not real welcome.”

 

            The miner laughed. “Yeah, well, call me curious.  I’ve lived more than sixty summers, and I’ve never spoken with a witcher.  Heard a lot about them, but never actually talked to one. Figured this might be my only chance.”

 

            “And you’re not afraid that I’m a mindless monster that’ll strike you down in cold blood?”

 

            The man reached up and scratched his chin. “Nah. I was in here last night. Saw you with Tayron.  I don’t know what was said between the two of you, but I figure a cold-blooded monster wouldn’t have even bothered with a conversation.”

 

            Geralt nodded his head slightly at the man’s logic. He then looked down at the table to see the Scorch card that the man had just played. 

 

“Well, you’ll see cold-blooded if you keep playing those Scorch cards,” the witcher said in jest. “Name’s Geralt. Yours?”

 

            “Ananias.”

 

            “A word of advice, Ananias. If you ever meet another witcher and he’s not wearing one of these,” - Geralt pointed to his wolf-head medallion - “then don’t approach him.  There’s a good reason why witchers are seen as heartless killers.  As a whole, we’ve earned that reputation.”

 

            The miner nodded. “Thanks. I’ll heed the warning. So, what makes you different?”

 

            Geralt paused for a moment. “Not real sure,” he replied, shaking his head.  _“In truth, maybe I’m not,”_ he thought to himself.

 

            As the game continued, the man noticed Geralt’s eyes tracking Evie from across the bar, and a knowing smile crept across his face.

 

“Pretty, ain’t she?  If I had just half the coin that was spent in this place by men trying to get her attention…of course, when they discover they ain’t gonna get a peek at her delicates, they go elsewhere.  They end up at Rosie’s, where the barmaids sell more than just booze and food, if you know what I mean.”

 

            “Yeah…I know what you mean,” said Geralt, whose eyes had moved quickly to the miner on his mention of Evie. “What do you know about her?” he then asked, nodding his head in Evie’s general direction.  


            “Not much.  She showed up in town…maybe two years ago.  She’s real polite and respectful, but she doesn’t let anyone get _too_ close.  And I’ve never heard her talk about her past.  But, that’s normal here.  Most folk in Tarsus are trying to escape something from their pasts so…” With that, the man shrugged his shoulders and threw another Scorch card on the table, which sealed Geralt’s defeat.

 

            The witcher looked down at the card.

 

“Looks like I’m out of luck then…in more ways than one. Best be on my way.” 

 

While Geralt was curious about the woman, he wanted to respect her privacy.  He certainly didn’t want to be seen as a nuisance or, even worse, as a stalker. 

 

oOo

 

            Evie had been full of conflicting emotions all night – ever since she first noticed the witcher walk into the tavern.  The overriding emotion was fear.  Fear that, after two years, her identity would be discovered. Fear that her location would be reported. Fear that her secret would be revealed.  Part of her regretted that she’d ever approached him last night. But, she had just been so curious about him.  And, to her surprise, she also felt a longing for the witcher. She couldn’t deny that, while the witcher was a scarred and intimidating figure, he was also quite striking. But more than having a physical attraction to the witcher, she simply wanted to feel safe.  She didn’t want to feel afraid anymore, and she believed that if anyone could protect her, it would be this monster-slayer. She had no doubt that there was nothing in this world that he feared. Of course, her next thought was one of chastisement.

_“Stop acting like a silly school-girl, Evangeline.  He’s a witcher. Not a knight looking for some damsel to save. And you don’t need saving anyway. Well, unless you’re talking about being saved from your loneliness.”_

 

            This internal debate continued for much of the night.  In the end, her fear – she would have said ‘good sense’ - won out, and she rebuffed all of his attempts for conversation. However, thoughts of the witcher ran through her mind for the rest of the evening, even after he had left the inn without a glance in her direction.

 

oOo

 

            Geralt was in the saddle, his mare moving at a slow walk.  They’d been heading west for the last three hours. He reached into his front pocket for his pipe, but his hand came out empty.

 

“Damn it, Roach. I must have left it in the tavern.”   

 

            Life consists of a million choices.  In truth, almost all of them are inconsequential. And even the ones that turn out to be monumental can seem completely unimportant in the moment. It’s not until one views the decision in hindsight – and sees that it’s one link in a long chain of cause-and-effect choices - that its impact can be fully appreciated.  Geralt was about to have one of those moments.  He didn’t know why, but he felt himself being drawn back to the tavern.

 

_“This makes no sense,”_ he thought to himself, as he turned Roach around.  _“It’s just a cheap pipe, bought for a few orens.  And it has no sentimental value.”_

 

So, then why did he feel the need to head back? Why didn’t he just keep moving west to the city of Lyria and buy a new pipe there?  He was making a decision based upon some “pull” he felt inside and not upon logic.  And that went against everything Geralt believed in.  He considered himself to be a man of wisdom and maturity – especially considering he was almost a century old, and he believed the wise and mature always based their decisions on rational, logical thought and not on whatever emotion they were feeling at the time. 

 

As Roach headed back east, Geralt kept up with the introspection. This decision to retrieve the pipe certainly wasn’t rational, but was it truly based on some emotion or desire, or was it something else?  He asked himself if he was really returning for the pipe or to see Evie.  While he could admit that he found her attractive, he honestly didn’t think he was returning out of a desire to see her.  So, it had to be for some other reason, right? Of course, Geralt had lived long enough and knew himself well enough to admit that, at times, he had blind spots when it came to his decision-making skills in certain areas of his life – especially when it came to women.  How else could he explain Yennefer? 

 

            “Well, Roach, I guess we won’t know what this is about until we get there.”

 

And he urged his mount into a canter.

 

oOo

 

            Of all the thoughts and emotions running through Evie’s mind, the overriding one was self-recrimination. _“How could I have been so stupid?”_ she asked herself as four sets of eyes leered at her. If nothing else, in the last two years of her life, she’d always made sure that she was aware of her surroundings and that she always had an escape plan. What had distracted her tonight?

 

            “We’ll take whatever coin you have on you.  And then you’ll tell us where the owner keeps his stash,” said the leader of the four, a tall, rail-thin man with a hook nose and long, greasy hair touching his shoulders. 

 

His name was Saul, and he had been a soldier for Rivia and Lyria in the second war against Nilfgaard.  The truth was, though, that he was a killer long before he put on the uniform.  He committed his first murder, at the age of thirteen, the same night that he had lost his virginity, which was also the same night that he’d raped the neighbor’s fifteen-year-old daughter. He was no longer a soldier because he had learned that killing for himself was much more enjoyable than doing so for his country.  More enjoyable and much more profitable.  He’d cased the town, and he knew that today was payday.  Therefore, he also knew that the till would be much fuller tonight than any other during the month.

 

            “I’ll give you what I have on me, but Stellan always carries the nightly take home with him.” A quick inspection of the four men revealed that they were all armed in some fashion. “And he and his brothers are supposed to be right back to help me lock up,” Evie hastily added. “You should leave before they return.”

 

            “Oh, oh, oh, missy.” Saul had a cruel laugh.  “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you lie.  It means you got fire in you. I always like ‘em better when they fight back.”  He smiled at Evie and displayed a set of blackened, rotten teeth.  “Stellan’s outside, gutted.  And he only had a couple of coin on him, which means the money’s still here.  See, I’m not just a pretty face,” he said as he tapped his temple with his index finger.  Then, quickly, the smile disappeared. “And there ain’t no brothers.”

 

            He backhanded Evie so suddenly and violently that she flew backwards into the bar and then crumpled to the floor. 

 

            “Search everywhere,” he commanded his men, and then he lifted Evie up by the hair.  “Now, let’s have some fun.” He punched her again, and she thought she could feel a couple of teeth loosen, as the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.  A blow to the side cracked two ribs, and she cried out and fell again to the floor.   A kick to the abdomen and two more blows to the face, and the blackness started to creep in on her vision. 

 

“You’re not as pretty now, but that’s all right.  I’ll just bend you over so I don’t have to look at you. My pappy taught me that you’re not supposed to look at the mantel when you’re poking the fire, anyway.”

 

Saul laughed at his joke and then grabbed her by the hair again.

 

            Evie felt herself being lifted off the floor. Then, she was slammed face first onto the closest table, and she heard the sound of ripping fabric as her skirt was torn from her body.  As she felt the vile man’s hands on her, she prayed, “Please, help.” At the very least, she hoped that she’d pass out from the pain so the she wouldn’t have to be awake to endure the shame of this man inside of her.  Somehow in the chaos, she heard the front door creak open, and suddenly the man’s groping hands left her backside.

 

            “Anybody find a pipe?”

 

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that she’d heard that voice before.

 

Evie’s left eye was already completely swollen shut, but with her right eye she could see a man silhouetted in the front door of the tavern. Three seconds - that felt like three minutes - passed.  Everyone remained motionless and quiet as the witcher entered the room.

 

            “No? I’ll look myself then.”

 

            The four bandits looked at each other in confusion.  What the hell was going on? Who would walk in on a murder, robbery, assault, and rape and simply ask about a pipe? Saul did have the presence of mind to pull Evie upright, almost as a shield in front of him.  He then pulled out a knife and placed it to her throat.

 

            With her one good eye, Evie watched the witcher walk toward the far corner of the back room.  The lanterns had been extinguished earlier so it was now in complete darkness.

 

            “Well, Roach, now we know why,” she could have sworn she heard the witcher say, though the words didn’t seem to make any sense to her.  Who was he talking to?

 

The four men were simply staring into the darkness, still unsure of what was about to happen.

 

            Evie could hear some rustling coming from the witcher, and then a few moments later, the darkness was broken by a small flame coming from the witcher’s fingertips.  She caught a quick glimpse of his face as he lit his pipe, and then it was swallowed by the darkness again as he exhaled. Swirls of white-gray smoke drifted out of the backroom, outward and upward.

 

            The silence was finally broken.

 

“Do you know how long a witcher spends each day caring for his swords?” his question carried out of the darkness.

 

            One of the four automatically shook his head in response while the other three tried to peer into the darkness. Everyone seemed to be mesmerized.

 

            “No?  Two hours.  We sharpen them every day, whether they need it or not.  They’re so sharp I could shave the spikes off of an alghoul.  We keep the blades free from blood, grime, acids – anything that could cause corrosion.  We cover them in protective oils.  Because they’re more than just the tools of our trade.  We’re taught from the earliest age to treat our swords as if our lives depended upon them. Because they do.” 

 

At that point, the witcher stepped out of the darkness and approached Evie and Saul. The other three instinctively formed a circle around him.  Evie noticed the witcher’s hand make a subtle motion at his side, and then she suddenly felt a warm, cozy blanket of peace envelope her.  She was still aware of her surroundings, but she was no longer bothered by them.  And she noticed that the knife was no longer at her throat.  

 

            The witcher took a long draw from his pipe, removed it from his mouth with his right hand, and then exhaled slowly. 

 

“So…I’m not about to sully my blades on four shit-stains like you.”

 

            He immediately swiveled to his left and drove his pipe into the man’s eye-socket, penetrating his brain and killing him instantly.  Before the bandit at his six o’clock had even moved, Geralt was on him, snapping his neck in a seamless move.  As the dead body was falling to the floor, the witcher grabbed its clothes and heaved the corpse toward shit-stain number three.  Both bodies fell to the floor in a heap.  Geralt stepped towards the corpse with the “pipe monocle”, bent down, and picked up the dead man’s hatchet.  He wiggled his wrist a bit, calculating the balance of the small weapon.  He brought his eyes up to see the third man just untangling himself from his dead partner’s body.  With a quick step, the witcher hurled the hatchet. There was a sound like a melon bursting as it buried into the man’s chest, and he fell backward onto the floor.  The White Wolf walked slowly towards the injured man and stood over him.  With a dead coldness in his eyes, he stared down at the bandit, lifted his leg, and then stomped down hard on the hatchet, driving it through the man’s breastbone and into his thorax. 

 

            The entire sequence had taken less than ten seconds. It was only then that he bothered to look at Evie and her captor.  Since they’d been standing so close together, he’d been forced to hit them both with the same Axii Sign stunner.  Geralt gently laid Evie on a nearby bench, quickly assessed her breathing and her body for any major bleeding, and then picked up her torn skirt to cover her nakedness.

 

            The Butcher of Blaviken stood, carefully surveyed the tavern, and then spotted what he wanted.  He turned his back on Saul and walked slowly to the bar.  He picked up a half-empty bottle of whiskey.  There was just enough light in the tavern that he could see his reflection – distorted - in the colored glass.  He paused as he noticed his eyes peering back at him. He returned to Saul and turned the bottle upside down over his head, soaking his filthy hair and clothes.   This caused the murderer and rapist to awaken from his slumber so the witcher “hit” him again with another Axii. 

 

            “Get on your knees and crawl outside,” he commanded.

 

            Once the man was away from the tavern, the monster-slayer told him to stand up.  He grabbed some wire from one of Roach’s saddlebags, tied the man’s ankles and wrists, and then “woke” him from his stunned state.

 

            “I left you for last,” the witcher began.  “I could’ve killed you while you were still stunned, and you would have felt very little. I could even kill you real quick right now.  Remove your head and you’d be dead before your body hit the ground.” 

 

The White Wolf suddenly smelled urine and saw that the now terrified man was pissing himself. 

 

“But there’s no justice in that.  Justice is that you feel the same pain and torment and…fear that you’ve caused in Evie and that, I have no doubt, you’ve instilled in countless others over the course of your miserable life.” The witcher paused and glared into the man’s eyes. “So, reap it… and burn, you piece of filth.”

 

The killer of monsters cast an Igni Sign at the bound man.  As his clothes and skin lit up like a pyre, his screams of agony echoed throughout the mountains.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Evie drifted in and out of consciousness.  When she did wake for brief moments, she felt tremendous pain in her face, ribs, and abdomen.  She also noticed that every time she opened her eyes, a white-haired man was on his knees by her side, looking down at her.  Then, she would fade back to black.  She thought that she remembered the man making her drink something a few times, but she honestly couldn’t differentiate dream from reality at that point.

 

oOo

 

            Evie’s vision came into focus, and she noticed a rock ceiling above her.  She looked to her left to see, once again, the white-haired man by her side.

 

            “How are you feeling?” he asked.

 

            “Thirsty,” she rasped.  Her mouth and throat felt like it was coated with cotton.

 

            “Here, drink up.”

 

            Evie slowly sipped the warm liquid before making a face.

 

“Ugh. What is this? It’s not the best.”

 

            “A special decoction.  Ribleaf, celandine, wintergreen oil, and white willow bark mixed in boiled nekker urine.”  

 

            She peered up at the witcher, who was looking down at her without even a hint of a smile.

 

            “You know what?  I hurt too much to care if you’re being serious or not.” 

 

            At that point, the smallest of grins came upon the witcher.

 

“Well, not about the urine part.  But, the brew does help with both the pain and swelling.  I was worried for a bit.  Afraid that he’d busted your insides up too much. If this decoction didn’t work, my next step was to give you some highly diluted witcher potions.”

 

            “And if that didn’t work?”

 

            “I would’ve dug your grave.”

 

            Evie nodded her head. “Thank you, Witcher.”

 

            He nodded his head back at her. “Call me Geralt.” 

 

oOo

 

            Later, Evie was sitting up, her back against a rock wall. There was a chill in the air so she had a blanket, from the pallet that Geralt had previously prepared, wrapped around her. She surveyed her surroundings.  It appeared that they were in a cave, but the entrance looked manmade – a square ten-foot by ten-foot opening.  She noticed that the witcher had made a small fire near the entrance and that rain was falling outside.

 

            “Where are we?” she asked the witcher, who was sitting nearby.

 

            “In one of the abandoned mines in the mountains.  I stayed here a couple of nights this week.”

 

            “How long was I out?”

 

            “Three days.  You were more than just battered and bruised. You had some kind of fever, too.”

 

            “Doesn’t surprise me.  Just breathing the same air as those four vermin probably gave me something.  But, why bring me here? Why not stay in town?”

 

            “Five humans were dead, including the bartender, and you were unconscious and beaten to a pulp.  I wasn’t going to stick around.”

 

            “But…you saved me,” she replied. “You could’ve told everyone what happened.”

 

            Geralt simply shook his head.

 

“I’ve learned humans rarely listen to my explanations.  It’s easier for them to go with their pre-conceived notion of what I am.”

 

            “What do you mean ‘easier’?”

 

            Geralt stared into her eyes and paused to collect his thoughts.

 

“Prejudice. We don’t come out of the womb with it.  We’re taught it.  We’re taught that witchers are baby-stealing monsters, that elves are deceitful thieves, that dwarves are greedy drunks, and so forth.  It becomes part of our worldview.  And, then, we live out our lives based on that worldview, and we’ll even use isolated incidents to re-enforce those beliefs.  If we see a dwarf drinking at a bar, suddenly, it’s, ‘See, Marva, I told you that all dwarves are drunken no-goods.’”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ Are you prejudiced, too?”

 

The witcher nodded. “Yeah, I’m no better than anyone else. At times, it’s difficult for me to overcome my belief that all Nilfgaardians are elitist, war mongering pricks.”

 

Evie smiled. “Okay, but you still haven’t explained how it’s _easier_ to be prejudiced.” 

 

            “If someone or something comes along in life that challenges and contradicts our worldview, we only have two choices.  One option is that we actually have to change our way of thinking to be more in line with truth. But, this can cause serious discomfort…because doing so could force us to look at our past actions with regret. It could force us to go against how all those around us – family, friends, neighbors - view the world.  It makes us feel uneasy because when we start to question our beliefs, suddenly our lives aren’t so stable. We begin to ask ourselves if everything we believe in is wrong.  The biggest factor, though, is that a change in our worldview could force us to drastically change our behavior.  And that’s simply not something many of us are willing to do.”

 

            “You said there were two options. What’s the second?”

 

            “We just flat-out reject whatever it is that is challenging our beliefs.  Dismiss it as a lie. Refuse to even consider it. The second option is easier.  It’s why I’m seen as the Butcher of Blaviken. And it’s why I wasn’t going to stick around.”

 

            She looked closely at Geralt. “Well, Butcher, you are like no witcher I’ve ever heard or read about,” she said with a smile.

 

            Suddenly, Geralt saw his opening.

 

“Speaking of ‘hearing or reading about witchers,’ how is it you knew I cast the Axii Sign on Tayron?  That level of detail about witchers isn’t common knowledge - especially for barmaids in remote mining towns.”

 

            Evie sighed and then peered deeply into the witcher’s eyes.  After a moment, she nodded.

 

“Okay. You saved my life so…I guess the least I owe you is an explanation.  I haven’t always worked in a tavern. I hold advanced degrees in both history and linguistics from the University of Nilfgaard and Oxenfurt Academy.  Just prior to my current profession as a barmaid, I served as a part-time consultant for the Nilfgaardian royal court.”

 

            “Hmm. You took a step up then, if you ask me.”

 

            Evie smiled. “Not a fan of politics, in general, or, specifically, the Emperor?”

 

            “Both.”

 

            “I won’t disagree with you, on either count. And by the way, just so you know - I’m not Nilfgaardian.  I was born in Vicovaro.”

 

            A gleam came to the witcher’s eyes.  “Really?  You know, I once knew a maid from Vicovaro…”

 

            “Ugh! Stop, please! I promise you I’ve heard them all.”

 

            Geralt’s smirk grew a little wider. “Alright…I’ll spare you.  Well, at least it’s good to know you’re not an elitist, war-mongering prick.  So, you were telling me how you knew about Axii.”

 

            “Right. Well, given my profession, I try to read everything that I can on the history of the Continent.  And you witchers have played a significant role in that history.  But there’s very little written about you.  Well, there are a few stories and songs, but all of those come off as fables, fairy-tales.  And, yes, I am referring to the bard Dandelion’s tales of your exploits.”

 

            Upon hearing that, Geralt rolled his eyes and shook his head.

 

            “But there is no research that is written in a scientific, objective manner,” Evie continued. “The book, _Monstrum_ , is the only thing that even comes remotely close. It obviously has some details about witchers – like the Signs that you use – that are accurate.  But, it’s also easy to tell that the author inserted a tremendous amount of his negatively biased opinion. Because, so far, you are _nothing_ like how he describes witchers to be.”

 

            “You sound…open-minded.”

 

            “And you sound skeptical of that.”

 

            “That’s because open-minded people are as rare as the silver-winged basilisk.  They both should be on the endangered-species list.”

 

            “I won’t argue with that at all, but, Geralt, you should know that, as a historian, I am, ultimately, only interested in actual _facts_ – not in subjective biases, opinions, or myths.  Though, in truth, most of the time I do have to sift through all of those just to find actual kernels of fact.  Therefore, please know that I will view you on you - based on what you’ve shown me of you and not on anything that I’ve heard or read about witchers prior to this. Okay?”

 

            “Fair enough,” he said, nodding his head.

 

            Evie continued. “Geralt, I won’t go so far as to say that I understand the level of prejudice you’ve experienced, but I think that, as a woman, I can sort of relate. Except for sorceresses, women are viewed as inferior to men in every way. It’s why I wasn’t and never would have been an officially recognized advisor of Emperor var Emreis’ staff.  It’s why I’ll probably never be a department head at any university.  So, I understand your skepticism, but I have hopes that one day this world will be open-minded enough for women – and witchers - to be seen as equal to men in terms of dignity, intelligence, and worth.”

 

            Geralt looked at Evie and shook his head.  “Don’t be naïve.  This world will never give a _damn_ about things like dignity or worth or…fairness.  In this world, ‘might makes right.’  ‘Power’ is the only currency that matters.  It’s the only reason sorceresses have a seat at the table. And these” - Geralt pointed a thumb at the swords on his back – “are the only reason I’m seen as having any value.  Why did those four shits come into your bar three nights ago? For power.  They wanted money, because money equals power.  And why did the leader try to rape you? It wasn’t out of a desire for intimacy or companionship.  He wasn’t trying to connect with your _dignity_ and worth.  It was about power.  He wanted to dominate you, to own you, to destroy you.  So, wake the hell up from your dream. This is the world we live in. And this is the way it will always be, Ciri. It is _not_ worth saving.”

 

            Evie was quiet for a moment. “Who is Ciri?” she asked softly.

 

            The witcher looked at her with confusion on his face.

 

            “You called me Ciri.”

 

            Geralt’s eyes fell from hers and towards the ground. With a slight shake of his head, he stood up and slowly walked out of the cave and into the rain.

 

oOo

 

            Morning broke the next day with clear skies.  After eating a small breakfast together, Geralt inquired as to his patient’s well being.

 

            “I’m a bit stiff.”

 

            “Well, want to go for a walk? Loosen up the muscles?” he asked. “It might help.”

 

            Evie agreed, and they began to stroll through the tree-covered mountainside. They talked as they walked, with the witcher occasionally offering Evie a hand when they encountered particularly rough terrain.  Evie soon discovered that while the witcher possessed a dry sense of humor, he was also quite cynical.

 

            “Sometimes, life is so tragic that all you can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all. It’s either that or cry,” he said at one point. When she asked for an example, he told of her of his recent stay in Toussaint. 

 

            “I was in the duchy for just a few weeks, but there were numerous examples of life’s irony – times when life turned out the exact opposite of the way people intended or wanted.”

 

            “Such as?” asked Evie.

 

            “Well, there was a young knight, who claimed to be in love with this aloof and _mysterious_ maiden.  Because he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her, he hired me to uncover the mystery, which he believed to be a curse. Turns out that he was correct. She was under a curse, which I was able to lift.  But, after doing so, she wanted nothing to do with him. Sent him away.”

 

            “What? You’d think she would’ve been grateful.”

 

            “She was…to me. She considered him to be…a nuisance, I guess. The last time I saw him, he was facedown in the street, drunk.  That situation certainly didn’t turn out the way he had hoped – in spite of the fact that she was cured of her curse. You want another example?”

 

            “I’m not sure. Is it as sad as that one?”

 

            “Worse.  Long story short, I came across a mage’s laboratory.  The mage’s son, due to the Law of Surprise, had been turned over to witchers as a boy.  The man loved his son and spent the rest of his life researching and conducting experiments, trying to come up with a way to reverse his son’s mutations so the he could be ‘human’ again. And some of his experiments were pretty ruthless, conducted upon unwilling participants, including his son. As you can probably guess, the experiments didn’t work as he had wanted, and the son died, cursing his father as a heartless monster with his dying breath.  And as a side note, not only did the experiments not reverse the witcher’s mutations as he had hoped, they actually strengthened them. As I said – life is quite ironic.”

 

            “Those are really sad stories, Geralt.”

 

            “I know.  That’s what I’ve been saying – life is tragic.  I’ve got dozens of stories just like those.”

 

            Evie was quiet for a while before asking, “Knowing what you know now, would you do anything different with the knight and maiden, if you could?”

 

            Geralt thought for a moment. “No. I don’t regret my choices with them.  I think I made the right decisions even though it didn’t end up ‘happily ever after’ for the knight.”

 

            “Really?  I find it interesting that you can separate the choice from the outcome. That you’d still do the same thing knowing that the knight ended up as a drunk in the gutter.”

 

            “Well, first of all, _my_ actions didn’t cause him to become a drunk.  That was 100% his choice.  There are other ways to deal with grief…though turning to alcohol does seem to be the easiest. Believe me…I know.  And if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that I can’t control what anyone else does or thinks.  I can influence others, but I can’t control them.  It’d be pure ego to believe that I’m some…all-powerful being whose choices can override another person’s free will.”

 

As he said this, a vision of Ciri walking into the Undvik tower to face the White Frost flashed in his mind.  

 

            “Also, while I do think the desired outcome is certainly a factor to consider when making a decision, I firmly believe that it shouldn’t be the most important factor.”

 

            “Really? Then what is?”

 

            “Rightness.  Is my decision the morally or ethically ‘right’ one?  As I’m sure you know from your recent experience in the tavern, life is ugly and complicated.  Our plans don’t work out like we want.  What we think should happen, rarely does.  And a big reason is that our choices are not made in isolation.  Outside forces - other people and other factors - impact the outcomes along our life’s journey. So, in that moment, when I’m making a choice, I have to ask myself, ‘What is the right thing to do?’  Because, essentially, that’s the only thing I can control – that choice in that moment.  I can’t control whatever happens after that. There are too many other factors in play.”

 

            “Okay, but how does that tie in with the knight and the maiden?”

 

            “The maiden wanted my help in lifting the curse.  But, she also asked that I keep her condition private, which I agreed to do.  Later, the knight demanded to know details.  In that moment, I had a choice to make – do I betray her trust or do I maintain confidentiality?  It was an easy decision for me.   I kept my word. I chose to treat her like I would like to be treated. I chose to respect her and to honor her desire to keep her private life private.  The problem was that the knight refused to respect her privacy.  He thought that he had the right to be in the middle of her business. In fact, he later snuck into her tent and eavesdropped on our conversation.  When he was discovered, she threw him out and told him to never return.

 

            “Now, would things have turned out differently had I betrayed her trust and told the knight about the curse and the methods to break it?  Maybe, because then perhaps he wouldn’t have chosen to sneak into her tent, which meant that she wouldn’t have thrown him out and so forth.  But, even now, I don’t know for sure how it would have turned out.  And even if I did know, does that justify me breaking my promise to the girl?  I don’t think so.  So, all I could do was make the right choice in that moment.”

 

            “Okay, it makes sense when you explain it like that,” she said, nodding her head.  “Why do you think the knight acted the way that he did?”

 

            “For the same reason that most of us make poor choices.  We’re usually our own worst enemy. Either we pick the wrong things that we think will make us happy, or we pick the wrong way of going about trying to achieve those things. And, typically, it’s because we allow our emotions to control our behavior. How many times have you heard someone say, ‘Just follow your heart.’?   I say, ‘Bullshit’ to that.  I say, ‘Follow your head.’  Our emotions cloud our judgment. They hinder our ability to think logically.  Simply put, our emotions are irrational. And irrational choices usually end poorly.”

 

            “So you think the knight was wrong for falling in love and wanting to be with the maiden? Wow, you really are jaded.”

 

            Geralt nodded his head. “You don’t know the half of it. But, no, I don’t think it was wrong for him to be in love, but I do think he was wrong in how he chose to pursue her.  I think that he wanted her so badly that he let his emotions get the best of him so that he stopped thinking logically.  Think about it.  He actually thought that he would achieve his end goal – winning the fair maiden’s heart - by sneaking into her tent and eavesdropping on her – by violating her privacy. And this was _after_ she had already previously made it clear to him that she didn’t want him poking around.  I’ll admit that I’m clueless when it comes to women, but even I know that most women don’t like it when you blatantly disrespect their wishes.”

 

            “Okay. I agree with that.  But what are you saying – that the world would be better if we were all more…witcher-like?” she asked with a grin.

 

            “First, that’s a myth - that we don’t feel emotions,” he replied with his own grin. “But, yes, I think so. More logic never hurt anyone.”  

           

            Evie didn’t say anything for a bit. 

 

“I’ve heard you call life ‘ugly,’ ‘tragic,’ ‘absurd,’ and ‘complicated.’ And I certainly agree with you.  My own life has shown me that.  But, don’t you think it can be beautiful, too?”

 

            He nodded his head. “At times.  But, those moments have always been very fleeting. They’ve never lasted.  And I don’t trust they ever will.”

 

            “Geralt – now that’s tragic.”

 

            “As I said.”

 

oOo

 

            Over the next few days, Evie began to recover quickly, but she still wasn’t quite well enough to return to town.  During that time, she mostly rested and recuperated, but she also spent many hours with Geralt, talking around the campfire and taking short walks in the mountains.  Geralt regaled her with a variety of stories of his over eight decades as a witcher, and she told him of her time in Nilfgaard and Oxenfurt and of the different historical sites she’d studied over the years. When he asked, she even admitted to having been previously married – a brief marriage in her twenties that had ended in divorce.  He could see some pain in her eyes when she discussed it so he didn’t pry for details despite being curious.

 

            “So, how is it that you became a historian?” Geralt asked at one point, as they were sitting on a log in the woods, high up in the mountains.

 

            “My father,” Evie answered.  “He was a historian, too.”

 

            “Was?” queried the witcher.

 

            “Yeah. He died, about ten years ago.” 

 

            “I’m sorry to hear that.”

           

            She shrugged. “It’s okay, now.  It’s been a long time.”

 

            “You must have really looked up to him, to follow in his footsteps.”      

 

            “Yeah, he was really good at what he did.  An expert in the field of Elven lore – or, at least, as much of an expert as a non-elf can be.  He even worked for var Emreis at one point, too. Huh, I guess that’s two things we had in common,” she said with a small smile.

 

            “You two must have had a good relationship, then,” remarked Geralt.

 

            “Well, not as much as you’d think.”

 

After a long pause, Evie continued. “Look, I’m not going to act maudlin or melodramatic.  It’s not as if I thought he was ever disappointed that I was a girl.  I mean, he already had two sons.  And, I’m not going to claim that I never heard him say things like, ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m proud of you’ – because he did.  But, I learned at an early age that he seemed to care more about the dead than the living.”

 

            “What do you mean?”

 

            “It’s _easy_ to say things. It’s easy to say words like, ‘I love you.’  But, it’s a whole lot harder to back them up – with your actions.  He said that he loved me – and my mom and brothers – but he just didn’t spend much time with us. Hardly ever.  I mean, aren’t you supposed to you _want_ to spend time with the people you love?” she asked rhetorically.

 

“He was always at work – at the university, or a conference, or at some far-off locale. Heck, even when he was home, he spent almost every hour of his time in his study, pouring over ancient texts or writing some new thesis.  I think that I initially got interested in history just so that he’d let me spend time in his study with him, asking him questions.”

 

            “That’s…a little sad, Evie.”

 

            “Yeah.” 

 

Evie stayed silent for several moments, watching a small bird hop excitedly about on a branch of nearby tree - adding a twig to a nest it was building, then soaring down to the ground to pick up another before immediately flying back up to add the new twig to its home. 

 

“Sometimes, I wonder if I was so driven to get my doctorates because I _actually_ love the subjects or if I was simply trying to prove to him that I was worthy to talk to.”

 

            They were quiet for a while after that, neither knowing what to say next.  Finally, the witcher turned his head toward Evie and replied, “Well, I’m here now, and I’m talking to you.”

 

            She looked up into his face, a wistful smile on her lips. “Thanks, Geralt.”

 

            The witcher simply nodded his head several times before turning away from her sad eyes.  Then, they both sat there in silence, watching the little, energetic bird continue to hop about and build its nest.

 

Evie and Geralt had many more conversations over the next few days, but during all of the them, the topic of Ciri was never brought up. And, as a reciprocal courtesy, he never asked about the events that had transpired for her to leave the life of a historian and become a barmaid in Tarsus.

 

            Despite not being a topic of conversation, Geralt was aware that Ciri was on his mind much more since spending time with Evie.  Mistakenly calling Evie by Ciri’s name was just one – and the most obvious - example.  The two didn’t particularly look similar, but there was something about Evie that was clearly causing memories of Ciri to come to the surface.  Perhaps, it was simply that she was both young and female.  Geralt realized that Evie was the first woman he’d spent any real time with since Ciri’s death. What was more confusing to the witcher, though, were the emotions that were still attached to the memories. He thought that, after his months at Kaer Morhen and after his conversation with Eskel, he had dealt with his grief.  He thought that he had finally come to the point of accepting what had happened a year ago.  He thought that, with acceptance, he should no longer feel either sadness or anger when he thought of Ciri’s death. But, he couldn’t deny that the emotions were certainly present again - though, luckily, they were no longer overwhelming him as they had last summer.  It perplexed him, but then again, he realized that he’d never experienced grief like he’d felt with the death of his daughter.  He hoped that he’d never have to again.

oOo

 

            After six days in the mountains, Evie was finally ready for the trek back to Tarsus. The bruising had turned to an ugly greenish color, but the swelling in her face and body had subsided and the pain had mostly dissipated.   Her ribs were still a bit tender, but the potions Geralt was giving her were increasing the healing process very quickly. 

 

            They were sitting side-by-side on a boulder near their temporary home, looking out over the valley as it was bathed in the light of the setting sun. Evie was acutely aware of the witcher’s thigh pressed up against her own.  Being so close to him brought back memories of two nights previous.  She had awoken with a start, her own cry of anguish stirring her from a nightmare – a nightmare in which her mind had been replaying all of the sights, sounds, and emotions from the attack in the tavern.  She had immediately felt Geralt’s hand on her shoulder and heard his voice, saying, “It’s okay. I’m here. It was just a nightmare.  I’m here.”  She had instinctively clung to him.  She remembered how safe she had felt when he wrapped his strong arms around her. She remembered his scent.  She remembered that she didn’t want him to let go.  And she remembered just how tender and attentive he had been all week as he nursed her back to health. She suddenly felt the desire to let him know just how much she appreciated him.

 

 “I must say, Butcher, if you ever decide to hang up your swords, you truly could become a healer of some sort.  With your potions and the balms and bandages you put on my ribs, you really seem to know what your doing. I’m impressed…and very grateful.”

 

            Geralt nodded his head and continued gazing out over the valley. “Well, you really need to thank my friend, Regis.  I learned it from him.  For most of my life, I only knew how to heal myself, with witcher potions. Then, about a year ago, I tried to help a young woman who had been attacked by a griffin.  I ended up giving her a diluted dose of Swallow, but it just made things worse.  So, a few months ago, when I reconnected with Regis, I asked him to show me some medicinal recipes that would work on humans.” Geralt shook his head and continued.  “You know, life is strange.  Three months ago, I thought Regis was dead. Then, he comes back into my life and teaches me some potions that, a few weeks later, end up saving your life. It’s amazing how the events of life mysteriously intertwine just so.  I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him.”

 

            When she didn’t respond, Geralt turned his head to his look at his patient.  She was staring at him intently with a warm smile on her face. 

 

            “What is it?” he asked.

 

            “You’re a kind man, Geralt of Rivia.” 

 

            Looking at Evie, Geralt could easily pick up the cues - her dilated pupils, the increased heart rate, the slight licking of her lips.  He could even sense that her body temperature had elevated.  And, suddenly, he felt very uncomfortable. He quickly stood up and took a step away from her.

 

            “Yeah, well…thanks, but…I think your fever’s returned…cause you’re obviously delirious if you think that,” he said.  “Come on. Time to go.”

 

oOo

 

            When Geralt had fled Tarsus six nights previous, holding Evie in front of him, he’d had the presence of mind to grab a spare horse that had been left in front of the tavern. It was that horse that Evie was riding back to town. The sun was just disappearing below the horizon as they approached the outpost.  With darkness closing in, the narrow, dirt streets were mostly abandoned.  The citizens had gone indoors for the evening. 

 

            As they rode down the middle of the main road, Evie, suddenly and unexpectedly, pulled up on her reins. 

 

            The witcher quickly halted Roach and looked back at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

            She was biting her lower lip and looking down at the ground but then brought her eyes up to meet his.

 

“Geralt, I…I don’t want you to leave.”   

 

            The witcher nodded. “Yeah…I’ve…kind of gotten used to you, too. But…what am I going to do, Evie?  Stay here and be a bartender?  Or, worse yet, go work in the mines? That’s not happenin’. And there’s no way you can come with me.  The Path is no place for an academic. Look, I’m sorry, Evie…this is just the life I have.  I’m sorry that you got involved with me.”

 

            “Well, I’m not,” she said quickly and then sighed. “Will you… at least finish escorting me home?”

 

            Geralt nodded. “Yeah. Do you want to walk? Make the time count?”

 

            After a nod from her, they both dismounted their horses and walked through the village side by side, holding their reins in their outer hands.  The witcher internally jumped when he felt Evie’s hand slide into his. He turned his head and looked into Evie’s face and then down at their interlaced fingers. Geralt wondered at how something could feel so comforting and so terrifying at the exact same time.  He knew that, despite the mythos of the witcher walking the Path forever alone, he had an innate desire for companionship.  And his past showed that he fulfilled that desire as often as he could.  He wasn’t quite as famous for his adventures with women as he was for his adventures with monsters, but it was close.

 

But, now, there was another desire, as well. A desire to protect himself.  It was a voice that said, “It ain’t worth it, Wolf. In the end, she’ll leave you, one way or another. Just like Ciri did; just like Vesemir did; just like your mother, who abandoned you, did; and just like, despite your plea for a second chance, Triss did on the docks of Novigrad. Hell, even your two-decade long fiasco of a relationship with Yennefer was nothing but a great cosmic lie sustained by magical ties.” Once the djinn’s magical bond had been broken, even that relationship had ended.  Despite still caring deeply for Yennefer, any desire for anything permanent with the raven-haired sorceress had simply evaporated. Whoever had said, “It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” was an absolute fool – a fool who had never lost or a masochist who had, the witcher thought to himself.

 

            Geralt was suddenly interrupted from his internal debate by the sound of voices.  He squeezed Evie’s hand and whispered, “Stop.”  He put his finger across his lips and shook his head before she could say anything. He leaned in close to her ear and said, “Nilfgaardian voices.” 

 

While it was true that the Empire controlled all the land south of the Pontar River, including the land of Rivia and Lyria, there was no good reason for Nilfgaardians to be in the remote village of Tarsus. They were still in the middle of a war against Redania, far to the west and north.   

 

            Fear spread across her face.  “I can’t hear them,” she whispered.  “What are they saying?”

 

            Geralt listened intently for about a minute. 

 

“They’re talking about you, looking for you.  And discussing how long until more men from Vizima will arrive.”

 

            “Shit…shit, shit.”

 

            “Yeah…shit, indeed.  Look, let’s stay calm. They don’t know we’re here.  So, let’s just sneak out of town as easily as we snuck in. And, then, you can tell me why they’re looking for you.”

 

            Evie shook her head. “I’ve got something in my cottage that I can’t leave.”

 

            “What?”

 

            He could see the uncertainty on her face. “It’s...a book,” she said after a moment.

 

            Geralt looked at her with disbelief.  “A book? Is it worth your life?”

 

            She looked him in the eye. “Yes,” she stated with pure conviction.

 

            The witcher stared back for a few seconds and then nodded.  “Okay. Stay here.  I’ll take care of them.”

 

            As he was about to turn away from her, she grabbed his arm.  “Wait.  You can’t kill them,” she implored.  “They could be just simple farmhands who were conscripted last week.  I highly doubt they even know why I’m wanted.  Can’t you…just use Axii on them?”

 

            Geralt was losing patience.

 

“Look, Professor, let me share some _facts_ with you.  Witchers, typically, only have time in a fight to use Axii on one opponent.  The rest…taste my blade.  And it sounds like there are three to four of them.”

 

            Evie, still gripping his arm, continued to look at him with pleading in her eyes.

 

            “Damn it. Fine,” he said with a sigh.  “I won’t kill…without cause…but you and I are going to have a long talk after this.”  She gave a small smile and nodded her head in understanding.  “Now, I need you to head back to the mine. If you want me to do this without bloodshed, then I’m going to have to do some scouting.  So, it’ll take awhile.  And it will help me focus if I know that you are somewhere safe.”

 

            Evie had as much pride as anyone and wanted to protest for being sent away, but she also had the sense to know her limitations, which included such skills as reconnaissance work and hand-to-hand combat.  She also didn’t want to push her luck, having gotten the witcher to agree to her previous requests.  After telling Geralt where to find the book in question, she mounted her horse and returned to the abandoned mine.

 

            The witcher thought quickly about what he would need in order to capture and subdue the soldiers. 

_“Ridiculous,”_ he mused. _“Witchers kill. We don’t capture.  Of all the dumb decisions I’ve made in my life – and there have been a lot, it seems like most of them have involved women in some way or fashion. Well, women or Dandelion.”_  

 

Geralt grabbed some wire and cloth from one of Roach’s saddlebags and then navigated his way quietly around the cottages of Evie’s closest neighbors.  He crouched, mostly hidden, near the corner of the closest cabin and surveyed the scene. Evie’s small cottage was in the southernmost part of town, slightly isolated, and in the shadow of a very large oak tree. There appeared to be only three Nilfgaardian soldiers, and they were all standing clustered together near the front door.  Even though the sun was already behind the Mahakam Mountains, Geralt waited another fifteen minutes for the darkness to settle in.  The moon was just a sliver and the sky was spotted with clouds so illumination was almost nonexistent.  Despite that, Geralt decided against using a shot of Cat potion to enhance his vision. He could still see pretty well at the moment.  Plus, one of the soldiers had lit a torch and placed it in a sconce near the front door of the cabin.  Using Cat that close to bright light would be quite painful.

 

            Geralt knew that the three men wouldn’t stand there clustered together all evening.  He had come across soldiers from dozens of different armies in his lifetime.  One consistent characteristic of every army was that they would always have a one- to two-man patrol at night, for security purposes.  And, sure enough, in a short time, two of the soldiers entered Evie’s cabin while the other began walking methodically around the perimeter of the property.  Geralt knew that it wouldn’t take long for the guard to grow bored and, consequently, careless on his watch. When the guard was on the backside of the house, the Wolf quietly approached the property, hopped the short fence, and stepped behind the thick tree that was located to the right side of the yard. As the soldier began his second circuit around the house, the witcher simply stepped out from the behind the tree and cast an Axii at the man’s back.  The guard suddenly stopped and just stood there, facing away.  Geralt quickly approached the man, tore a strip of cloth and used it to gag the soldier, and then tied the man’s ankles and wrists using the wire.  He used another strip of cloth to blindfold the man.  The soldier was still under the effects of Axii, but Geralt also knew that every person had different, natural resistance levels to it.  Some could fight off the effects quickly, and some could even lie when asked questions.  Thus, he decided to encourage compliance with one of the oldest and most effective methods – instilling fear. He stood directly behind the man, pulled his knife, and placed it to the man’s throat. 

 

He then leaned in close, an inch from the Nilfgaardian’s ear, and whispered, “Nod gently if you feel my blade on your throat.” The soldier nodded.  “Good. I have no qualms about killing you. Nod if you believe that.” The man’s head moved again. “Good, again.  I am going to loosen the gag and ask you some questions.  Behave and you’ll live. Don’t…and I’ll slaughter you and everyone inside. Nod if you believe me.” The guard nodded for the third time.  

 

            Geralt loosened the gag.  “How many are inside?”

 

            “Two,” the soldier answered in a calm voice.

 

            “Is one of them going to relieve you from your patrol or are you just going to head inside when you’re tired?”

 

            “Norrie will relieve me.”

 

            “When?”

 

            “After an hour.”

 

            Geralt put the gag back in place, lifted the man easily onto his shoulder, carried him behind the large oak, and set him on the ground.

 

            “Move or make a noise and you’re dead. Got it?” Another nod in response. Geralt patted the man’s head. “Sit tight.”

 

            About thirty minutes later, the front door of the cabin opened and Norrie walked out.   He stood at the door for about two minutes, then in exasperation said, “Jochim, if you’re asleep…” He then began to walk the perimeter of the house, looking for his comrade.  Geralt stepped out from behind the oak and simply repeated the Axii-gag-wire process with Norrie.

 

            “One left,” the witcher said as he headed to the front door. He stopped and discreetly peered through a front window.  He saw a third man, with his back to the door, organizing a Gwent deck. The door creaked when Geralt opened it.

 

            “Jochim, I hope you’re…” was as far as the man got before Geralt hit him with an Axii.

 

            A short time later, Geralt had all three men in the cabin - bound, gagged, blindfolded, and sitting on chairs.  He found the thin book – along with a bag full of coins - under the floorboards in a small closet, right where Evie had told him it would be.  He opened it but saw that it was written in an obscure variant of Elder speech, a language in which, while proficient, he was far from fluent.  After grabbing the coin, some spare clothes and personal items for Evie, he then turned his attention back to the three Nilfgaardians. One of them had two placards on his person.  The smaller of the two parchments had an incredibly accurate drawing of Evie’s face on it.  At the top was the word “MISSING.”  Under Evie’s picture were the letters “EV.” And below that, “Feared abducted.  If found, please contact the alderman of Tarsus.”   The second parchment was a larger, higher quality placard that, too, contained a remarkably accurate depiction of Evie. However, the wording was quite different. “WANTED. Professor Evangeline VanderBosch.  For treason against the Empire.  Substantial Reward. Report information to Nilfgaardian authorities.”

 

            Geralt questioned the men and discovered that they were part of a small detachment of soldiers in the city of Lyria. Three days ago, when a man from Tarsus had arrived in the capital city with the “Missing” posters, someone recognized “EV”as the wanted Professor.  A couple of soldiers left for Vizima to contact the Emperor while these three came to Tarsus to scout out the situation and interrogate the citizens. 

 

            The witcher stood before the Nilfgaardians and felt the urge to draw his steel.  These three were a danger to Evie and, therefore, needed to die.  Killing them would be the smart thing to do.  Doing so would allow him and Evie at least a week’s head start on the Vizima contingent’s arrival.  If he let them live, however, more than likely, a villager would get curious at some point tomorrow, enter Evie’s cabin, and then free them.  That would only give them about a twelve-hour head start before a possible pursuit began.  But, more than the logical reasons for killing the three men, Geralt just felt a strong desire to end their lives.  The urge to kill had been inside of him for as long as he could remember.  It was as natural and as constant an urge for him as breathing.  These three were enemies, and he had the power to end them. He reached up and grabbed the hilt of his steel sword. He unsheathed twelve inches of blade before his hand stopped.  The Butcher of Blaviken stood.  He stood, not even blinking, staring at the three men.  He stood, with his hand poised above his head, gripping the means of their destruction. After a solid minute, he slowly lowered the blade, the cross-guard of the sword making a light click against the scabbard.

 

            “Don’t pursue the woman.  If I see you again, you die.  And you’ll never see me coming.”

 

He then turned and exited the completely dark cottage.  

 

oOo

 

            Geralt walked into the mine holding the wanted poster. 

 

“Okay, Professor, start talking.  Just the fact that you more than likely pissed off his Royal Arch-magnificence makes me want to help you.  But, I’d still like to know what I’m getting involved with before a make a final decision.”

 

            Evie looked at the poster and then at the book in Geralt’s other hand. She knew, deep down, that she didn’t need the witcher’s help.  She could simply go into hiding again just like she had before.  But, the truth was that she wanted his help.  She had been alone for so long now, even from before her time in hiding, and she didn’t want to hide any longer. She didn’t want to be alone any longer. She asked herself if him saving her life and tending to her injuries weren’t enough to make her trust the man in front of her, then the fact that he brought the priceless tome to her should be, right?  She nodded her head, trying her best to convince herself of her decision.

 

            “What do you know of the legend regarding the Sword of Destruction?” she finally asked.

 

            Geralt shook his head.

 

“Never heard of it…but, let me guess.  There’s some kind of confusing and vague prophecy attached to it.”

 

            “Yes. How did you know?” she asked with genuine surprise.

 

            The witcher sighed, looked upward, and then shook his head. 

 

“Swell.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Renewal comes from the destroyer.  Order from the wild. Of the same father, but not belonging.  A lover of death, rebirth will come through him.  Twisted yet straight, esteemed yet reviled, virgin yet marred. By his right hand, the world will be cleansed through the rod of Apophis.”

 

            Geralt looked at Evie with a perplexed look on his face.

 

“That’s it? So, let me get this straight.  You stole this ancient elven tome, pissing off the Royal Bunghole, risking a death sentence…because of that?  I don’t even know what the hell that means. That’s more vague and confusing than Ithlinne’s Prophecy.”  

 

            Evie had spent the previous half hour explaining how she had come into possession of the small book.  About two years prior, her Uncle Malek had come to her home in Vicovaro.  He wasn’t truly her uncle, but rather her father’s first cousin.  But, the two men had grown up together like brothers so it always just seemed natural to call him “Uncle”. Malek had joined the Nilfgaardian armed forces as a teenager and had worked his way up the ranks - so high that Evie didn’t even know what he did or what his official rank actually was anymore.

 

            Malek had asked Evie to come to the capital city – she refused to call it “The City of Golden Towers,” thinking that the name was both too cumbersome and pretentious to use - to help decipher some recently discovered Elven tomes. But, when she arrived there, she immediately knew something was amiss.  Instead of heading to the location of the discovery, which was customary, she was taken to the royal palace.  She would be escorted into a room, then moments later, two armed guards would bring in a solitary book.  But, she could tell that the book wasn’t complete – as if it was one volume of a much larger compendium.  This made deciphering the text more difficult because there were references to people, places, and events of which she simply didn’t have full knowledge.  She would study its contents and, then, when finished for the day, she would knock on the door and the guards would retrieve the book and whatever notes that she had made during the session.  She had asked many questions - when and where the book was discovered, if there were any other books or artifacts found with it, who had discovered the book, and so forth - but she never received any answers. Over the years, she had been hired to investigate many archeological discoveries, but none were conducted in this secretive, unorthodox manner. It was all very unsettling.

 

            But it was the book, itself, that had Evie the most on edge.  The tome told an incredible tale of the Aen Seidhe elves prior to the Conjunction of the Spheres. Whether it was a true historical account or just a fable, Evie wasn’t entirely sure, but it told the story of how the elves first arrived on the Continent. They had been living in a distant land across the sea, a land rife with conflict. It was a land marked by war, slavery, and natural disasters – everything from powerful hurricanes to fiery meteorite showers ravaged the area.  The tome indicated that the elven god had promised to take them to a land free of war and chaos - to a land of peace where they would thrive and rule. 

 

            After much debate, the elves decided to trust the promise and set sail across the tempestuous sea in gleaming white boats created by their god. But the journey was arduous – full of deadly storms, terrifying sea creatures and, at times, a shortage of food.  Despite the elven god fulfilling his promise to protect his people, fear began to consume most of the Aen Seidhe. As the fear grew, so did the dissension.  Soon, grumbling became common as large groups of elves voiced their discontent and their longing to return to their previous homes and way of life.  Once the first ship fell back from the fleet, many others did so, as well. These ships sailed back toward the western horizon and were never seen again. 

 

            It took many years, but a remnant of Aen Seidhe who remained steadfast to the original journey eventually reached shore, and they then settled in and colonized the Continent.  As their god had promised, their land was marked by peace and prosperity.  Over the next several centuries, they built amazing cities and palaces as their race continued to flourish. But, then, the story took a turn. 

 

            A stranger mysteriously arrived in the land of the Aen Seidhe.  He looked similar to the elves, but with a few minor differences – most notably, his rounded ears.  His name was Apophis, and he wore white garments – so white that they were almost blinding.  He possessed extreme beauty and carried a staff of immense power. Apophis promised the elves that they, too, could have this same great power.  He said that he could help them gain entry into the divine realm, where their god resided.  There, they could attain divine knowledge, which would lead to both understanding and power beyond their imagination.

 

            The elves began building a device, based on Apophis’ design, which would open a portal to this realm. There was a lone voice of opposition, an elven seer who warned against this course of action, but the Aen Seidhe leaders scoffed at his dire predictions, and the device was eventually completed. However, when it was activated, instead of opening a way to their god, the Conjunction of the Spheres occurred, bringing mayhem to the entire planet.  The Conjunction of the Spheres opened hundreds of portals to different worlds, through which arrived humans, vampires, draconids, necrophages, harpies and all the other types of alien species that now inhabited the Continent.  Additionally, the primordial Chaos – the magical force that permeates nature  – seemed to suddenly appear at this time.  Prior to the Conjunction, there were no magic users, but shortly after, the first mages and sorceresses stepped onto the pages of history.

 

            While not mentioned in the tome, it was common knowledge that the elven nation would never be the same. Over time, the humans grew to be the dominant race on the planet.  The elves eventually became marginalized, forced to live in ghettos or in the forests.  Their cities and palaces were destroyed and turned to ruins. What the tome did mention next was the prophecy related to the rod of Apophis.  And that discovery – according to Evie - was what made her choose to flee with the book.

 

            As Geralt listened to Evie’s tale, something was niggling in the back of his mind.  While most would say that a witcher’s greatest asset was his mutation-enhanced, physical skills, Geralt believed that his most formidable tool was his mind.  While he couldn’t invade other’s thoughts like certain sorceresses could, he had developed – after a century of living - the ability to read and understand people.  He had become an expert at deciphering non-verbal cues.  He knew that a person’s stance, a licking of the lips, how they held their hands were all significant tells. The way a person shifted their eyes – either up and to the left or up and to the right – gave clues as to whether they were trying to recall a factual event or fabricating a lie. That ability – to “hear” what wasn’t explicitly being said - had saved his life more times than he could count.  And while he was fairly certain – or at least hoped - that Evie wasn’t being deceitful in the telling of her story, there was still something about it that just didn’t sit right with him. There was a piece of the puzzle missing.  He just couldn’t figure out what it was, yet.

 

            “I’ll be honest, Geralt, I don’t really know what the prophecy means either.  What most interests me is the last line.”

 

            “And why is that?”

 

            “Because it makes me believe that the legend regarding the Sword of Destruction might just be true.”

 

            “So…this rod of Apophis is the same as the Sword of Destruction?”

 

            “Possibly.  There are several similarities.  First, the word in the Elder speech that is translated ‘rod’ could also mean ‘staff’ or ‘sword.’ Second, the legend speaks of a sword of unspeakable power. The legend also states that it’s a sword not of elven origin, but one that is as old as - if not older - than the elves themselves.  A sword with the power to destroy entire nations.  Reading this prophecy makes me think that this sword actually does exist.  And if so, I was not about to let Emperor var Emreis find out about it.”

 

            “Why not?  I know that you are not a ‘true’ Nilfgaardian since you weren’t born there, but you were still born and raised in a province of the Empire. I would think you’d want him to solidify his power.”

 

            “Geralt, if the Sword of Destruction actually exists and if it truly does hold the power to destroy nations, then I don’t want anyone to possess it.”

 

            Geralt nodded. “Okay.  That explains why you stole the book, but, then, why keep it?  Why not just burn it?”

 

            Evie sighed. “Two reasons.  One, I’m a historian – a chronicler of past events – and I just couldn’t bring myself to do that.  And two, I figured that as long as I’m alive, destroying it won’t serve any purpose anyway.  Because even if I burn the book, if they catch me, then I have no doubt that they will have a variety of ways to make me tell them what I know.” 

 

            The witcher nodded his head. “No doubt. We’ll just have to make sure they don’t find you.” 

 

Geralt walked to the cave entrance and looked out toward the darkened valley below. He had previously extinguished the small campfire inside the mine so he had no fears of his silhouette being visible.

 

“How well known is this legend – the Sword of Destruction?  I ask because I’ve never heard of it and I’m a century old.”

 

            “It’s not well known – if at all - outside of the elven community.  The Aen Seidhe are quite secretive of their history.”

 

            “Well, I’d say that it’s pretty obvious that no one, including var Emreis, actually possesses the sword.  Either that, or it’s not as powerful as the legend claims.  Because, if he had it, he’d be using it to wipe out his enemies. That said, do you think the Emperor knows about the sword, knows of its existence?”

 

            “I have my suspicions.  Given how secretive and unforthcoming everyone was regarding the discovery, given how they kept me isolated, then, I certainly think that they knew they had found clues to something incredibly important.  I’m very doubtful that I was the first or only researcher brought in by Emhyr.  I’m betting, though, that they just weren’t sure of the details – like the sword’s location.  Plus, my father also knew about the legend of the sword.  And as I’ve mentioned to you previously, he worked very briefly for the Emperor many years ago – just prior to his death. Heck, as far as I know, finding the sword could have been what my father was working on for Emhyr. So, to answer your question, yes, I think Emhyr knows about it.”

 

            Geralt furrowed his brows. There was another niggling feeling in his mind again.

 

“What exactly do you know about your father’s death?”

 

            “Just what I was told by Uncle Malek.  I was living and studying in Oxenfurt at the time so I didn’t find out about it for several weeks. Malek came up personally and said that both my dad and mom had been murdered in their home. Thieves had broken in one night and stolen some items and killed them both.  That’s also when I found out that my dad had been hired by the Emperor shortly prior to that.”

 

            The witcher looked hard at Evie. “I hope you don’t think that’s just a coincidence. That son-of-a-bitch would murder his own mother just to win a round of Gwent.” Geralt paused for a moment in thought. “So, why not go to your uncle with your concerns, with the tome?”

 

            “It did cross my mind, but the truth is that my overwhelming thought at the time was to just get as far away as possible. Plus, I’ll be honest, I don’t know if he would have helped me.”

 

            “He’d choose the Emperor over his own kin?” 

 

            “Well, perhaps, not the Emperor himself, but for Nilfgaard…?” and she shrugged. “He’s a true patriot, Geralt.  I doubt that there’s anything he wouldn’t do if he thought it was for the good of the Empire. ”

 

            “Yeah, I’ve met people like that.  They’re hard to trust.  So, you had no other friends or family to turn to? You once mentioned that you had brothers.”

 

            “Yes, but I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

 

            “I hate to break this to you, Professor, but you already have.  If I was hunting you, the first place I’d look is your family and friends.  And when they told me that they didn’t know where you are, then I’d go to great lengths to ensure that they were telling me the truth. As you said, the Emperor and his men have ways to find out what they want to know.”

 

            Evie’s eyes got incredibly wide. “We have to get to Dol Blathanna!”

 

            “And why is that?”

 

            “My grandmother is there,” she said frantically, starting to gather her belongings.

 

            Geralt narrowed his eyes as he looked at Evie. “Your grandmother lives in the elven province?”

 

            She hesitated.  “Yes…she’s full-blood Aen Seidhe.”  She waited to see what the witcher’s reaction would be, but he just looked at her for several long seconds.

 

            “Evie, I’m not sure that going to your grandmother – or any family member – is a wise decision,” Geralt said calmly.  “As I said, that’s what they probably expected you to do two years ago.  It’s what they’d expect you to do now. The wise choice is to do the opposite of what they’d expect. I can hide you someplace safe.”

 

             She shook her head. “No, Geralt.  Two years ago, it didn’t even cross my mind that they might torture my family for information on me.  But, you’re right.  That’s something they would do.  And I couldn’t live with myself if my family was harmed and I didn’t even try to warn them.  I mean, what kind of person would that make me?”

 

            “So, you’re willing to risk getting caught and that book falling into the Emperor’s hands all on the remote chance that your grandmother _might_ be in danger?  We don’t even truly know where she is, Evie.  And, not to be harsh, but we don’t even know if she’s still alive.” 

 

            “Maybe so, but, yes…I’m willing to risk my life to keep my family safe.”

 

            The witcher stared at Evie in silence and then finally exhaled deeply and nodded his head. 

 

“Okay.  Then, grab your things.  We’re leaving now.”

 

oOo

 

            The predominant chain of the Blue Mountains ran mostly north and south, creating the eastern border for the northern kingdoms.  However, there was a ridge of mountains that jutted out, running east to west, which separated the kingdom of Lyria from Dol Blathanna, a small region given to the Aen Seidhe elves by the Emperor. Regardless of whether any one admitted it or not, it was land that had been bestowed to the elves in exchange for their guerilla warfare against the armies of the Northern kingdoms.  No one actually believed that the Emperor cared about the elves or their right for an independent, free nation.  He had only used them as a tool to disrupt the northern rulers’ war efforts.  Many elves were convinced that once Nilfgaard defeated the Redanian forces, the Emperor would turn his focus upon them.  Of course, for the Nilfgaardian military to find the Aen Seidhe, it’d have to search in the Blue Mountains east of Dol Blathanna as there were very few elves in the valley any longer. They had been pushed off their land by encroaching humans and, therefore, now lived up in the mountains to the east. At one point, several thousand elves had lived in the Dol Blathanna region, but that number had dwindled significantly since many had fought and died in both the second and third Northern Wars.  In fact, given the low birth rate of the Aen Seidhe and that their mortality rate was far outpacing their number of births each year, the Aen Seidhe nation was on verge of becoming extinct.

 

            Geralt had explained to Evie that the two of them essentially had only two paths to the elven province. They could stay on the plains and travel around the mountain ridge, which would take six or seven days.  Or, they could travel in a straight, northern line over the ridge.  This would, in theory, cut the travel time in half, but it also posed significant dangers.  Geralt was aware that the mountainous region was a potential dwelling place for several types of unpleasant creatures.

 

            “We have to get there as soon as possible,” had been Evie’s answer.

 

            The following afternoon found Geralt and Evie high in the Blue Mountains, with only a couple of hours of sunlight left. They had just reached a small, grass-covered plateau after having spent the last hour climbing upward over very difficult terrain.  The climb had been so steep and the footing so treacherous that Geralt had advised that they dismount their horses and traverse on foot.  He was worried that if Evie’s horse slipped while she was riding, then she would be severely injured either from being thrown from the saddle or from being crushed under the horse’s weight if it fell on top of her.

 

            Evie stopped once she reached the top of the plateau. Bent over, with her hands on her knees, she was breathing quite heavily. Her body was covered in sweat, making her blouse and pants cling to her body. Geralt had dropped Roach’s reins, had walked several paces ahead, and was standing in the middle of the meadow facing away from her. 

 

            “Geralt, can we stop for a drink?” she asked between deep breaths.

 

When he didn’t answer, she looked up and said, “Geralt, I need –” but she didn’t finish the sentence. She was too startled by the sight before her to speak.  Lightning-like, orange bolts of energy were flashing around Geralt’s body in all directions, creating a shimmering sort of shield around him.  From her research, she assumed it to be the result of him casting the Quen Sign, but it was still astonishing to see in person.  She then noticed that the witcher had his sword in his hand.  Suddenly, multiple events seemingly happened all at once.  Six creatures – all of a humanoid shape but with long, sharp claws – appeared to miraculously spring up from the ground around Geralt. Both horses whinnied loudly, reared back on their hind legs, and ran off to evade the danger.  At the same time, Geralt slammed the ground with an Aard Sweep. The telekinetic force not only knocked all of the monsters backward several feet, but it also reached Evie, who, even though she was a good fifteen feet away, in her weakened state, fell backward onto her behind.  She saw the witcher throw some type of bomb in front of him, and when it hit the ground, the explosion “froze” the creatures in that area. But, before it had even detonated, Geralt had already started his attack on the monsters at his rear.  

 

            Evie had never seen anything like it.  The monster-slayer was spinning and twisting his body between the creatures, avoiding their attacks, while at the same time twirling his sword around his torso so fast that it was just a blur. He was transferring the sword between his two hands more seamlessly than she could have done so with a fork, and it seemed that with every twist and spin he was drawing blood. She sat there in awe as she watched this professional killer slice his way through three of the monsters and then turn his attention to the other three that were just “thawing out” from whatever bomb he had thrown their way.  She was mesmerized by his skill.  It was as if he and his sword were dance partners, moving with a graceful fluidity to music that only he could hear. If not for the horrible cries of pain coming from the beasts and all of the blood and body parts flying through the air, she would have considered it quite beautiful. 

 

            And then, as quickly as it started, it was over.  She got up and stood on two shaky legs, adrenaline coursing through her body. She looked around the small meadow.  The horses had fled and were hiding in a thicket of trees.  Monster corpses covered the ground at the witcher’s feet, and there was blood on several areas of his armor.  She hoped that none of it was his.

 

            She started to ask him just exactly what those creatures were, but before she could get a word from her mouth, she saw him drop his sword and reach behind his back.  She stood frozen and wide-eyed as he pulled out his crossbow and aimed at her.  Before she could move, she heard a noise behind her and then a “thrum” pass by her ear.  She screamed and turned to see a monster on the ground with an arrow through its neck, gurgling noises emanating from its throat.  Suddenly, Geralt was in front of her, driving his sword through the downed creature’s heart.

 

            He immediately turned to Evie, pulled her into a hug, and whispered into her ear, “There could be more. We need to stay quiet. Understand?”

 

Her entire body was trembling, but he clearly felt her nod her head against his.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. 

 

She nodded her head again. 

 

He then took a step back, looked closely at her body, and then whispered, “Turn around. Let me check your back.” 

 

The witcher knew that adrenaline could temporarily mask any pain from injuries so he wanted to verify for himself that she hadn’t been harmed.  Post-conjunction creatures were dangerous for a lot of reasons, one being that they carried a tremendous amount of disease and pestilence. For a normal human being, simply being scratched by one could lead to a slow and painful death due to infection running rampant. He let out a sigh as he saw that, luckily, her clothing was neither ripped nor blood stained. 

 

His inspection complete, he turned and faced the meadow.  He reached up and lightly placed the fingertips of his left hand on his wolf-head medallion and then turned his head to speak softly to Evie over his shoulder, “Stay here, and don’t move.”

 

As he went to take a step, he felt resistance from behind. He looked over his shoulder again to see Evie wide-eyed and with a death-grip on the scabbard of his steel sword.

 

“Are you crazy? Don’t leave me here,” she mouthed to him. 

 

She didn’t know where he was going or what he was planning to do, but she knew being next to him was the safest place she could ever be.

 

Geralt sighed and whispered back, “I need you to trust me.”

 

Evie looked hard at the witcher with a clenched jaw.  He stared back at her, slightly nodding his head, until she finally gave him a single nod of her own.

 

At that point, Geralt placed his fingertips on his medallion again and began walking in a very slow and deliberate pattern across the meadow. Occasionally, he’d stop, kneel down, and turn his head as if listening intently.  It took him about fifteen minutes – to Evie it felt like an hour - to make his way around the entire meadow. Eventually, he stopped, turned to Evie, and motioned for her to come to him. As she approached him, she saw that he was standing next to a mound of dirt, approximately three feet tall and ten feet in diameter.  In the center of the mound was a hole, roughly three feet across.   Once she reached him, he grabbed her gently by the elbow and steered her several yards away from the dirt mound.

 

            “We can talk now, but it’d still be best if we keep our voices low,” he said in a whisper.

 

            “What is that?” she asked, nodding her head at the mound.

 

“Nekker nest,” he replied.

 

“It took you that long to find it?”

 

“No. I saw it immediately.”

 

“Then, what were you doing for the last fifteen minutes?”

 

“Seeing if there were any more of those little bastards just below the surface, waiting to surprise us.”

 

“They live underground?”

 

“Not always – sometimes in caves. But, typically, yeah. Deep underground in a den composed of several lairs, connected by an extensive network of tunnels. This ‘nest’ here is the primary entry and exit point, but it may not be their only one.  And even if it is, and even if I destroy it, that won’t kill or permanently trap any of the other nekkers still living below.  As you saw, they can dig their way out of their tunnels straight up through the soil.”

 

            Evie looked around and then took a step closer to Geralt so that they were virtually touching.

 

“So those that you just killed aren’t the only ones?”  

 

            “I don’t know.  My medallion didn’t vibrate and I didn’t hear anything dangerous, but it’s doubtful.  Seven adults would make for a pretty small den.  At the very least, there are probably a few mother nekkers still down there with their brood.”

 

            “Nekker babies?”

 

            “Yeah. Where do you think the adults come from?” he asked in a mildly sarcastic tone.

 

            “Hell, I don’t know!” Evie exclaimed in a very excited whisper. “For all I know, they hatch out of giant eggs, already fully grown. I’m a historian not a zoologist.”

 

            Geralt immediately looked contrite. Evie’s fear was palpable so he realized that he needed to be patient with her. He nodded his head.

 

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m just…I’m not used to having company on the Path, having to answer all these questions. I’m sorry, okay?”

 

She looked into his eyes and gave a nod of her head. “Okay,” she whispered.

 

“Look, we’ve got a couple of options,” he continued.  “One, I can destroy this nest, and we ride out of here immediately. But that means leaving the other nekkers – however many there are down there - alive. Or, two, I can try to eradicate the entire den. But, that could take many hours – maybe even a couple days’ worth - of work.  So, what do you want to do?”  

 

            “Me? Why are you asking me?”

 

            Geralt peered at her oddly. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re in this together, right?”

 

            Evie looked at him with surprise and then asked, “What would you normally do?”

 

            “Well, if this was a contract, then, obviously, I’d kill ‘em all.”

 

            “Even the babies?” Evie’s eyes were wide.

 

            Geralt raised an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, even the _cute, cuddly_ nekker babies,” he replied, a touch of sarcasm coming through again.  “They don’t stay that way long, you know.”

 

            Evie quickly looked down, her cheeks flushing red.

 

“Right. Of course,” she said, looking back at the witcher.  “But…this isn’t a contract, so what would you normally do in this case?”

 

            “Simple.  I’d ride on.  I’m a witcher. I exterminate monsters for _coin_. No coin, then I don’t bother. That’s just bad business. Plus, we should probably leave ‘em for the Nilfgaardians, just in case we’re being followed. They deserve each other.”

 

            Evie was silent for a moment. “But…we’re not that far away – less than a day - from Tarsus and even closer to the mines.  Could these nekkers be a danger to anyone there?”

 

            Geralt thought for a moment and then nodded his head.

 

“Well, probably not anytime soon, but, by next spring…sure, the nekkers could migrate that way by then. Anything’s possible.”

 

            Upon hearing that, Evie acquired a very serious look on her face and, then, turned and walked over to her horse.  Geralt watched as she searched through the saddlebags for a minute, apparently found what she was looking for, and then returned to stand before him. She presented her hand, now holding her bag full of coin. 

 

            “How much?” she asked.

 

            “For what?”

 

            “I’m hiring you – to kill the rest of the nekkers. How much?”

 

             The witcher furrowed his brows. “I thought we were in a hurry. Your grandmother, remember?”

 

            “Of course, I remember.  How much?”

 

             The Butcher of Blaviken shook his head slightly. “I know that I may have made things look easy before, but this could be very dangerous, Evie.  The smart decision is to move on.”

 

            She looked into his eyes. “I spent two years in Tarsus.  I have friends there.  People that I care about…that care about me. Tayron is my friend.  His daughter, Voltea… _was_ my friend.  So…how much?”

 

            Geralt sighed. “What currency do you have?”

 

            “Mostly orens.”

 

            “A hundred,” the witcher responded almost immediately.

 

            Evie had a slightly shocked look on her face. “You’re actually gonna – You’re going to charge me that much?”

 

            “Are you kidding?  A nekker nest usually runs 200.  I’m giving you a discount.  First, because those seven dead are on the house since, technically, I wasn’t on contract at the time.  Second, because we simply don’t have time to do this properly, fully. That could take two or three days. I’ll have to do a partial job.”

           

            “How long would this _partial_ job take?”

 

            “Maybe…three hours.”

 

            “Deal.”

 

She counted out the appropriate coins, placing them in his hands as she went along. 

 

“You’re hired,” she stated, peering into his eyes with a determined look on her face. “So, what do we have to do?”

 

 “Well, first, you can hang on to these,” he replied as he dumped the money back into her coin purse.  “I’ll have to climb down into the nest and then -”

 

            “What? Are you insane? You’re going to climb down there with them?”

 

            “Well, my sanity is debatable, but you asked about it so let me finish.” 

 

He then described to her what the “partial” plan consisted of, and after hearing it, Evie decided that he was insane.

 

            “I change my mind.  I don’t want you to do this. You’re right. It’s too dangerous.”

 

            Geralt narrowed his eyes at her and shook his head.

 

“Too late.  The terms of the contract have been settled, and the money’s exchanged hands.  I’m now obligated to follow through with it.”

 

            Evie looked exasperated. “What? Why? Is that some kind of witcher code?”

 

            “No. No code. It’s just the honorable thing to do – following through with my word. Next time, discuss the details of the contract _before_ agreeing to it.”

 

            “Well…you…you put the coin back in my money bag so…what if I tell you that I won’t give it back to you even if you do the job?”  

 

            The witcher squinted his eyes at her for a moment, and then he shrugged.

 

“That’s entirely your choice…but I _am_ going to attempt the contract. That’s my choice.  And, if, when I finish the job, you choose to refuse payment, then so be it.  It wouldn’t be the first time I got cheated. But, that’ll be an awfully deep stain of dishonor on your character.  Have fun with that.”

 

            Evie glared at the witcher. “You know what?  You’re just mean. You don’t fight fair at all.”

 

            “I know,” Geralt replied with a small smirk. “I learned from the best. Can I start now?”

 

            Evie nodded. “Okay, but please be careful.”

 

oOo

 

            Over the next two hours, Evie was captivated as she watched the witcher go about his business.  He had taken Evie and their horses over the next ridge – away from the nekker-infested meadow - and proceeded to build a small fire.  Out of Roach’s saddlebags, he had removed numerous types of plants, flowers, and foul-smelling animal parts; different-sized bottles containing multicolored liquids; small tubs of both paste-like and sand-like substances; and a variety of other alchemical ingredients that Evie had never seen before. He had warned her to stand back from the fire since just breathing in some of the fumes of what he was creating could be potentially fatal to her.  

 

Evie couldn’t take her eyes off the witcher.  It was clear to her that Geralt was truly in his element. He knelt before the fire with all of the ingredients and half a dozen, small, metal bowls laid out before him.  He eventually had four to five different preparations going at once, and his movements were methodical, sure, efficient, and non-stop. As soon as he finished meticulously measuring and adding an ingredient to one potion, he was immediately on to the next.  She was already impressed with his skill due to having witnessed the White Wolf in combat twice in the past week, but, now, she was seeing another side of the witcher that was increasing her respect for the man even more. Watching Geralt work just cemented in Evie’s mind the belief that becoming a witcher wasn’t simply and only a by-product of having a mutated body.  There was more to it than that. It was a true profession – a profession that required a vast knowledge of the world’s flora and fauna, an intense amount of discipline, obvious years of training, and an incredible attention-to-detail. She shook her head as she noted that none of those facts about witchers could be found in the book, _Monstrum_.

 

Geralt eventually finished his preparations and, then, reviewed with her in detail the plan for the impending action. Before heading back down the slope to the nekker nest, Evie watched him cover both his silver sword and a knife with a reddish-brown oil and then place them back into their respective scabbards – the sword on his back and the knife on the lateral side of his right thigh. He then strapped a bandolier across his chest that contained more than a dozen bombs of different shapes and sizes.

 

“One final warning,” cautioned the monster-slayer.  “I’m about to take three witcher elixirs.  These are highly dangerous to humans. So, after this is over, be careful not to touch me.  Even if I’m bleeding – _especially_ , if I’m bleeding.  My blood is going to be toxic to you.  Hell, even my sweat could be poisonous to you.  Got it?”

 

Evie nodded her head in response, and then Geralt handed her two small vials.  The liquid in one looked reddish-orange while the other was slightly more viscous and the color of a chicken egg. 

 

“I hope you don’t have to use these, but they’re for if…things go south. If I get out of the nest but am highly injured or if I fall unconscious, then force me to drink these - the white one first, followed by the orange. But make sure that the liquid does not even touch your skin. Okay?”

 

“Got it. Orange first, then white.”

 

 Geralt’s eyes flashed. “No, damn it. White first, then orange. Evie, you _have_ to pay attention.”

 

“I know. I know. I was trying to tease you…” She had a very tentative smile on her face, which quickly disappeared to be replaced by her biting her lower lip. “…because I’m about to piss my pants.”

 

Suddenly, the Wolf’s face softened. “Hey, I told you that I can do this myself, remember?  You don’t have to go down there with me.”

 

She shook her head. “No. I’m going to help.  I need to help.”

 

            Geralt stared at her for a moment, nodded his head, and then reached out and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.  He then led her and Roach down toward the darkened meadow. The sun had set by this time, and the stars in the sky were quite visible, but with only a quarter moon present, there wasn’t much illumination. With her vision now hampered by the darkness, it seemed to Evie that her other senses, particularly her hearing, were heightened.  She noticed the gentle breeze rustling the leaves, and the sound of Roach stepping on and snapping a dead tree limb on the ground sounded to her ears like an entire tree falling in the forest. With every little noise detected, Evie was jerking her head from side to side, expecting it to be a vicious, little nekker jumping out of the ground, ready to pounce. She instinctively reached up and touched the bandolier that was running diagonally across her breasts and then moved her hand upward until she felt a small metal and glass canister. The bandolier was one of Geralt’s spares, and on it, he’d placed three Northern Wind bombs. 

 

“Just don’t drop them…or throw them at me,” he’d instructed. “And, if you see a nekker, toss it at him, and then turn and run to your horse.  Ride fast and don’t look back.”

 

            Once they were within thirty feet of the nekker nest, the witcher turned Roach so that she was facing away from the nest, retrieved a long, thick rope from his gear, and then expertly tied one end of the rope to Roach’s saddle.  He then walked towards the creatures’ lair.  After tying the other end of the rope around his waist, he paused to listen intently one more time, all while lightly touching his medallion with his left hand. He then nodded, let go of the rope, turned to Evie, and stated, “I hope to be back in about five minutes.  And, remember, if you hear me yell at you to run, then you run.”

 

Evie’s heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it in her ears.  Sweat was dripping off her fingertips and nose, and her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow.  This was a much worse experience than the previous nekker attack two hours prior.  That had been completely unexpected for her, and the whole bloody, violent affair had ended so quickly that her mind hadn’t had the chance to truly be nervous until the attack was already over.  But, now, her mind had nothing to do but worry. Evie realized that while the witcher was completely in his element, she was completely out of hers.

 

She watched as Geralt uncorked the three vials of witcher potions. One, in particular, caught Evie’s eye. It was bluish-green and looked to be almost glowing.  The White Wolf drank them down quickly one at a time.  She heard the monster-slayer breathe in deeply and, then, he clenched his fists tightly and held his breath. After almost ten seconds, he finally exhaled, and as he did, she thought she heard what sounded like a low growl coming from his throat.  And, then, Evie watched the witcher, without another word or even a look in her direction, drop out of sight, down into the darkness. 

 

oOo

 

Author’s Note:

A couple of details in this chapter were inspired by an early chapter of the story, “A Scholar’s Travels with a Witcher,” by Spike368.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt jumped into the opening of the nekker nest and slid on his left side down a sloped tunnel, but the trip lasted less than two seconds. He shot out of the tunnel feet first and landed softly in a crouched position onto the ground floor of the communal lair.  Earlier, on the ridge, Evie had asked Geralt why he simply couldn’t exterminate the nekkers by dropping a bomb into the nest.  He had explained that no nekkers actually lived in the initial lair.  It acted like an entry hall.  Branching out from this communal lair of the nest, there would be numerous other tunnels leading outward and slightly downward to the other lairs where the nekkers actually ate, slept, rutted and whatever else nekkers do in their spare time.

 

The nest was pitch black, but having taken a shot of the Cat potion, Geralt could clearly see his surroundings and see that he was alone.  But, the witcher didn’t immediately jump into action.  He stayed in his crouched position, not moving a muscle, as he let his witcher senses take over. The stench was overpowering. The pungent odor of decay and excrement was like a punch to the nose. Sometimes, possessing super-enhanced senses was actually a detriment, the witcher thought to himself.  He swiveled his head to see four separate openings to tunnels leading elsewhere and, then, focused on listening to each of the tunnels. He could detect the faintest of sounds. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was hearing – most likely some type of nekker activity - but he could tell that whatever was making the noise was not nearby. It was fortunate that the monster-slayer was attacking at night.  Nekkers were not, naturally, nocturnal creatures.  They had a sleep cycle that was more or less similar to humans, which meant that Geralt hoped that any nekkers below had already “bedded down” for the evening.

 

He slowly began to rise from his crouched position. As he looked up, he saw that the ceiling of the lair was perhaps only five feet from the floor.  In addition, the semi-circular lair was only about eight feet in diameter. This was going to, potentially, complicate things for the witcher.  There was no way that he’d be able to wield his sword adequately in such an enclosed space.   Swordplay wasn’t part of the initial plan anyway, but the fact that he wouldn’t be able to use his favorite weapon made him wince.  For he knew that even the best of strategies usually went to hell as soon as first contact was made with the enemy.  Many times, to his utter disappointment, his opponents simply didn’t act according to his plans.

 

            The White Wolf stepped over to the nearest tunnel and then knelt before it.  From his bandolier, he grabbed two bombs – one each of Devil’s Puffball and Dragon’s Dream, while keeping the Dancing Star bomb in place. When crafting bombs, witchers could pick from a variety of canisters or containers in which to pour the explosive components.  The type of canister that was chosen was determined, one, by the specific needs of the objective – for example, did the witcher need an immediate or delayed detonation; two, by the degree of volatility and combustibility of the ingredients, and; three, by the state of matter – that is, liquid, gas, or gel – of the internal components.   Each canister had to be crafted to exacting standards. The last thing that a witcher wanted was a faulty canister exploding while still in his hand or while on his bandolier.  Thus, Geralt trusted no one to create his bomb containers but himself.  Each winter, when he was back at Kaer Morhen, he would spend countless hours in the lab working with various metals and numerous kinds of glass, resin, sap, wax and other components to craft more than a hundred different types of empty bomb “shells.” There were bombs that exploded on contact; some that used a lit fuse for detonation purposes; and others that kept the internal components separated until, through a twisting of a specific mechanism, the ingredients mixed.  With this last type of canister, after activating the necessary mechanism, the witcher would vigorously shake the bomb and, then, had about three seconds before the ingredients reacted sufficiently to explode.

 

For the attack against the nekkers, Geralt had known that he couldn’t use bombs that exploded on contact for he simply had no idea how long each tunnel was.  There was no way that he was going to crawl down into each individual lair.  Even for a witcher, that was suicide.  Therefore, to make sure that the explosive device reached the lair at the end of the tunnel, he was going to have to throw the bomb with great force, which precluded the use of the first type of canister – the “detonation on contact” kind.  In addition, the highly combustible components of the Dancing Star bomb prevented him from using the twist-and-shake type of cannister. Thus, while still up on the ridge, the witcher had been very precise in choosing the specific canister-type for each individual explosive.  

           

Geralt quietly moved over to the next tunnel and placed a Devil’s Puffball and Dragon’s Dream on the ground in front of it. He then did the same for each of the other two openings.  There were now a total of eight bombs on the ground – two in front of each tunnel – and four Dancing Star bombs still on his bandolier.  Since the Dancing Star made the biggest explosion and loudest noise, the witcher’s plan was to throw the first two bombs down each tunnel and, then, quickly go back and ignite and toss down the Dancing Star.  He was afraid that if he detonated all three bombs in the first tunnel at once, then the Dancing Star explosion would alert the nekkers in the other lairs, and they’d either head to the communal lair in a counter-attack or dig their way to the surface to escape before he had the chance to send bombs into their living quarters. Geralt breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. He then picked up a Devil’s Puffball and thought to himself, _“Here we go.”_

oOo

 

            Evie’s nerves were wrecked.  It had only been about two minutes since Geralt had disappeared down the nekker nest, but in that time, Evie swore she’d heard a dozen sounds indicating an impending nekker attack. And with each sound, her heart rate continued to climb.  Since she was standing next to Roach, the bay mare easily picked up on Evie’s fear and neighed and stamped a front hoof.  Then, because Evie began to worry that, standing so far from the nest, she wouldn’t be able to hear Geralt if he called out a warning to her, she tentatively began walking towards the pitch-black opening. On her next step forward, Roach neighed again, making her jump.  She looked over her shoulder with a glare at the horse and reached up to grasp tightly the Northern Wind bomb on her chest.  She took another tentative step forward, her eyes darting to the nest, then to her left and right, and back to the nest again.  She was halfway there when the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood up.  She immediately spun around, her eyes scanning the darkness.  She couldn’t see anything but instantly ran back to Roach’s side.

 

            “How about we stick together, huh, girl?” she asked as she stroked the horse’s neck.

 

            And, then, Evie heard it. A distant thump coming from deep below the earth. And she knew that Roach sensed it too for the mare neighed again – this time, much more loudly than before - and the powerful muscles under her slick hide twitched in anticipation and fear.

 

oOo

 

            Geralt cursed.  He had just tossed a Dancing Star bomb down the third tunnel and was moving with haste to the fourth - and last - opening.  The explosion from the first tunnel had pushed a wave of dust up into the communal lair, hindering visibility.  But that was not what had Geralt on edge.  It was that the second Dancing Star bomb had not detonated.  He hoped that the Devil’s Puffball had incapacitated whatever nekkers were in that second lair, but Geralt knew what type of luck he had, and it wasn’t that good. He snatched a Dancing Star bomb from his bandolier, and as he twisted his fingers for the Igni Sign and lit the fuse, he sensed his wolf-head medallion begin to twitch.  He reared his arm back to toss the bomb as hard as he could down the tunnel when he was hit from behind, the bomb falling from his grip. 

 

“Whuuueeehkuuueeehkuu!”  

 

An angry nekker squealed loudly in the witcher’s ear – an angry nekker that was on his back and attempting to claw out his eyes.  The force of the nekker’s attack caused Geralt to bounce off the wall of the lair and ricochet towards the opposite side, the vicious beast on his back the entire time. Geralt tucked his chin to his chest and covered his face with his left forearm to protect his eyes from the nekker’s claws. At the same time, he reached down to his right thigh, grabbed the hilt of his knife, and in a quick, upward thrust over his right shoulder, slammed six inches of blade right through the nekker’s eye, its socket, and into its brain. 

 

The nekker corpse fell instantly from his back, and the witcher began frantically looking for the bomb on the ground. He saw the bomb’s fuse burning near the entrance of the fourth tunnel, and as he scrambled over to pick it up, his medallion jerked again. He turned just in time. A second nekker slashed at him with its right claw, but Geralt caught its wrist in his left hand before it could draw blood with its razor-sharp, six inch nails. As the creature brought its left claw up to slash Geralt’s face, he again tucked his chin to his chest and threw his right forearm up to protect his eyes. Instead of pushing forward against the nekker, he took a quick step backwards and pulled the creature towards him to throw it off balance, and then he immediately and repeatedly began piercing the nekker’s abdomen, with five, six, seven deep thrusts of his knife – each thrust penetrating up to the hilt.  While the energy and life were leaking out of the nasty creature, it didn’t die instantly and was still holding on to Geralt, attempting to inflict damage. 

 

With his head still ducked down for protection, the witcher’s eyes were desperately searching for the bomb at his feet.  He caught a glimpse of the explosive device slightly behind him, its fuse just burning down into the metal canister. The witcher kicked backwards, his heel making partial contact with the bomb, forcing it to roll slowly into the fourth tunnel. Geralt forcefully shifted his weight and twisted his body, using the momentum to toss the nearly-lifeless nekker into the tunnel.  He immediately dove to the far side of the lair and covered his ears just before a fiery explosion blew the nekker’s body to bits and back out of the tunnel and into the lair. 

 

            Geralt groggily got to his feet, his ears slightly ringing. He searched for the tunnel that led to the surface, but there was too much dirt, dust, and smoke in the air, blocking his vision. He had no idea in which direction was the exit. He, then, felt his medallion vibrate for the third time.

 

“Damn it,” he cursed again.  He reached down to grab the rope around his waist, but it was completely slack.

 

            “Evie! Pull! Pull!” the witcher yelled.

 

He expected the rope to immediately pull taut, but nothing happened, except for his medallion continuing to twitch on its chain.

 

“Evie! Pull!”

 

            He heard a squeal from a nekker somewhere to his left, though he couldn’t see it amidst the dust and smoke filling the lair.   Then, he heard another squeal from a nekker to his right. 

 

            “Swell,” he said to himself.

 

oOo

 

            When the second bomb exploded, Roach began to lose her composure, whinnying several times and stamping her hooves.  Evie reached out and grabbed her bridle with her left hand while rubbing her neck with her right and trying to soothe her with soft words. 

 

            “It’ll be okay.  He knows what he’s doing. It’ll be okay.” She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince more – herself or the horse. 

 

            Moments later, a third bomb detonated, its explosion much louder and much closer.  To Evie, it sounded like it came from just inside the nekker nest. Roach, her eyes going wide, let loose with an ear-splitting scream and started half-bucking, half-running in circles.  Evie, who still had a hold on the mare’s bridle, was suddenly taken for a ride.  She almost immediately lost her footing, and as she fell, the bridle broke free of her grip. As she was falling to the ground, she had just enough presence of mind to twist her body so that she landed on her back, sparing the three Northern Wind bombs strapped across her chest.  As she got to her knees, she noticed two things - Roach still running in circles and Geralt shouting her name from down below.

 

            She staggered to her feet and ran towards Roach, but the skittish mare reared back on her hind legs, not allowing the historian to get close.  Then, Evie heard Geralt yelling out for her again.  In an instant, she made a decision and ran towards the nekker nest, shocked to see what looked like smoke spewing from the hole.  She skidded to a stop, snatched up the slack rope in her hands, and then began pulling as hard and fast as she could.

 

oOo

 

            Though he couldn’t see them, Geralt sensed the two nekkers coming closer.  He dropped to one knee, hoping that the monsters’ vision was as impaired as his and that if they dove for him they’d fly over his head.  And then, from his crouched position, the monster-slayer let loose with a continuous blast of Igni with his left hand, starting at his left and moving towards his right.  Both nekkers caught fire and began to squeal even more loudly than before, and then, suddenly, Geralt felt a tug on the rope around his waist.  He reached down with his right hand to discover both good news and bad.  The good news was that the slack had been pulled out of the rope and he could now determine in which direction was the exit.  The bad news was that he was on the opposite side of the lair from the exit, with two burning but still dangerous nekkers in his way.   

 

He slammed the ground with an Aard Sweep, knocking the nekkers off their feet but also dowsing the flames and, then, immediately ran towards where he thought the exit would be.  He hit the wall of the lair with his shoulder and frantically –  like a blind-folded man – moved his hands around the wall until he at last found what he was looking for.  He jumped head-first into the exit, but as he began crawling up the hole, he felt an intense pain in his right butt cheek.  A nekker had lunged for him, its long claws piercing right through Geralt’s treated leather trousers and into his meaty rump.  The witcher rolled onto his right side and began blindly kicking backwards with his left leg, hoping to connect with the nekker’s face. All the while, the nekker’s razor-like nails were pulling downward, tearing the witcher’s skin and muscle.  He eventually made solid contact and felt the nekker’s grip loosen.  He kicked again and then scrambled upward.   

 

oOo

 

            Evie was pulling on the rope with all her might, while also yelling at Roach, “Run, you idiot! Run that way!” 

 

But, the mare wasn’t listening.  She was no longer bucking or running, just standing in place while stamping her hooves on the ground in agitation and neighing in a high-pitched tone. Suddenly and unexpectedly, the tautness left the rope, and Evie fell backwards onto the grassy ground.  She looked up to see Geralt frantically crawling out of the nekker nest, but her relief was short-lived, immediately replaced by terror as she watched three nekkers emerge right behind the witcher.  

 

            The monster-killer, now on his feet, turned to face the three creatures.  He reached up, grabbed the hilt of his silver sword, and unsheathed the blade from its scabbard.

 

With a sneer on his face, he growled, “Now, you’re dead.”

 

            Unfortunately, Geralt and Evie weren’t alone in seeing the nekkers.  Roach saw them, too, immediately reared up on her hind legs, and then took off like she’d been stung by a hornet.  Geralt, too focused on the three beasts, didn’t even notice.  As he was just getting ready to strike, he was suddenly jerked backwards by the rope still tied around his waist and was yanked along the ground in Roach’s wake.  As Evie watched the witcher fly past her, she looked up to see the nekkers coming her way.  Somehow through the panic flooding her mind, the word “bomb” popped through.  She reached up to the explosive on the bandolier, pulled it from its clip, and tossed it at the nekkers.  The bomb hit the ground in front of them, detonating in a bluish-white explosion and freezing them in place just long enough for her to turn and sprint towards the ridge.  As she looked up, she saw Geralt running down the slope in her direction, the glowing, orange lightning bolts of Quen shimmering around him.

 

            As the witcher slowly approached the three, just-thawed-out nekkers, he said, “Okay… _now_ …you’re dead.”

 

              The first nekker leapt in the air towards the monster-slayer, reaching out with both claws to draw blood. The witcher smoothly side-stepped to his left, bringing his blade down just below the deltoid of the nekker’s outstretched arm.  The nekker howled as his appendage flew through the air. After the witcher’s blade sliced completely through the nekker’s flesh and bone, he allowed the momentum of the sword to twist him into a pirouette while also dropping to one knee.  This allowed him to catch the second nekker mid-thigh with his blade. The sword cut through the nekker like a hot knife through butter, and the monster fell to the ground, blood squirting from its two stumps. While still on one knee, the Butcher of Blaviken rolled forward and ran the third nekker straight through the gut, his sword exiting a good twelve inches out of the back of the creature. As the witcher stood, he took his left hand off the sword’s handle and grabbed the nekker by the loose skin of its neck. He then lifted the nekker off its feet while increasing the angle of the blade. Gravity did the rest as the creature slid further down the blade towards the sword’s hilt.  There was now two feet of blade protruding from the nekker’s back.

 

Suddenly, the witcher heard a noise behind him. Pivoting on his right heal, he lowered and spun the monster’s body towards the noise. The now one-armed nekker couldn’t slow its attack and ran straight into the protruding blade. Later, the witcher would joke that that had been his first ever nekker-kabob.  With both creatures now impaled on his sword, he stepped forward with his right leg and twisted his body to the left with all of his might. The two nekkers fell backward and hit the ground with a thud, one on top of the other.  The witcher quickly jerked the blade upward and then, with a grunt, brought it back down again, skewering both nekkers’ chest cavities.    

 

            The White Wolf pulled his blade free of the two corpses and began turning his body in a slow circle, his eyes scanning the area around him.  He was listening closely, but the meadow was deathly quiet.  He walked back over to the nekker nest, crouched down, and waited. After five minutes, he stood and carefully began making his way around the meadow.  Another five minutes later, he decided that they’d done the best that they could do, given the time-crunch that they were under.  If there were some still-living nekkers down below, then so be it.

 

            It was then that he looked up the slope and saw Evie standing at the top of the ridge, staring down at him. She had a horse on either side of her, one hand holding each of their bridles.  Upon seeing her there, a contemplative look crossed his face. He had told her that, if things turned sour, she should ride away and not look back.  But, apparently, that was something she wasn’t willing to do.  As he continued to stare at her, the witcher nodded his head slightly, realizing that he had just learned a bit more about the historian’s character.

 

A moment later, he began limping up the slope towards the three. As both his adrenaline and the witcher potions were beginning to dissipate, his brain was starting to register the pain coming from various parts of his body.  He knew that he’d have to examine it soon.

 

As Geralt approached Evie at the top of the ridge, she calmly asked, “That…could’ve gone better, right?”

 

The witcher actually let out a low, quick laugh. 

 

“No doubt. But…any contract you can walk away from…consider it a success.” Then his face turned serious. “Now…where’s my coin?”

 

As Evie shook her head, a slow smile broke out across her face.

 

“Of course, Master Witcher. Right away, Master Witcher.”

 

oOo

 

            “Evie, I think I’m gonna need some help with my butt.”

 

            “Umm…Okaaay.  What exactly do you need?” Evie asked with trepidation.

 

            As Geralt held up a long, curved metal needle, he asked, “Do you know how to sew?”

 

            “Oh, dear.”

 

oOo

 

            Immediately after “The Battle of Nekker Meadow” – which is what Evie would call it from now on - Geralt began looking for a place to camp for the rest of the evening. He could have continued, but one look at Evie and it was clear that she was about to collapse. To be fair, they had been on the move for twenty-four hours – twenty-four very intense, stressful hours.  While searching, they came across a small, mountain stream.  It wasn’t much, not even waist deep, but they took advantage of the opportunity.  They watered their horses, refilled canteens, and, per the witcher’s suggestion, bathed themselves. 

 

“Who knows when we’ll next get the chance,” he had said.

 

            Geralt stood guard, his back to the stream, as Evie stripped bare, grabbed her soap that Geralt had picked up in her cottage, and began washing several days’ worth of sweat, dirt, and grime from her body.  She was exhausted, but the frigid mountain water shocked her alert.  After she changed into fresh clothes, it was Geralt’s turn. As he walked past her, he caught the strong scent of vanilla. He paused for a moment and inhaled deeply, but he then quickly shook his head and immediately set about cleaning his sword, knife, and armor – all of which were covered in nekker blood, hair, bits of bone, and ogroid oil.  Only after his gear had been tended to, did he then begin the cleaning and maintenance of his body.  It was, at that point, that he realized he’d probably need to suture up the wounds on his backside and that he’d need help to do so.

 

            Geralt spread a blanket down on the ground, placed his unsheathed silver sword on the left side, and then stuck a lit torch in the ground on the right side of the blanket about mid-level.  As he began to drop his trousers, Evie stopped him.

 

“Wait.  Are you sure you can’t do it yourself? Surely, you’ve done this before.”

 

“Countless times.  But, because of the… _location_ of the wound, I can’t see what I’m doing.  So…I need your help.  Evie, what are you worried about?  I’ve seen you naked. This’ll make us even.”

 

“Right...right.  Okay.  Are you…going to sterilize the needle?”

 

“What for?  I’m immune to disease and infection.”

 

“Of course, you are.” 

 

At that point, Geralt turned around, dropped his pants and lay face-down on the blanket.  Evie knelt down and straddled his right leg.  She gasped at the sight. There were four, deep, bloody gashes in Geralt’s backside, each one about six to eight inches long.  This was going to take a while. 

 

As she tied a knot in the end of the thread, she asked, “What kind of hair is this?”

 

“Manticore.  It’s thin but very resilient. And it stretches just the right amount. It’s the best for stitches.”

 

She wondered at just how extensive was the witcher’s knowledge on all things medical. She had no doubt that he could be a guest lecturer at Oxenfurt Academy’s School of Medicine if he ever wanted.

 

She reached her hand down, but right before grasping his flesh, she stopped short.

  
“Geralt, I’m not the best seamstress.”

 

“Evie, it doesn’t have to be perfect.  They’ll heal up on their own eventually, but this’ll just speed up the process, okay?”

 

She nodded.  “Is this going to hurt?” she asked nervously.

 

“A bit.  But nothing I’m not used to. Just remember – don’t just stitch the skin together. You have to get the muscle tissue underneath, too.”

 

Earlier, Geralt had taken a White Honey potion to neutralize any toxins in his body.  He assured Evie that he was safe to touch now.  She reached down, grabbed the skin at the top of the gash nearest to her, and then jabbed the needle through both edges of tissue. 

 

She became less nervous with each pass of the needle through his flesh, especially since Geralt, apparently, wasn’t troubled by it. Whether or not it actually was painful for him, she didn’t know, and that made her wonder at just how high was the witcher’s threshold for pain. If he was ever captured and tortured for information, would he ever break, she pondered.  How much pain could the witcher go through before his torturer finally had enough and just killed him?  The thought made her shiver.

 

Despite his words about the lack of need for perfection, Evie was going very slowly with the suturing because she wanted to do the best job possible. Therefore, before she had even finished with the second wound, the fire of the torch began to diminish. 

 

“Geralt, I’m having trouble seeing.  Can you re-light the torch, please?”

 

The witcher was resting his head on his crossed arms so he lifted up, reached back with his right arm, made a sign with his hand, and a flame of fire materialized just in front of his palm and, then, shot forward to ignite the torch.

 

“That is so amazing,” Evie said in a whisper. 

 

She’d obviously seen him perform his Signs several times already, but she was still in awe of his special power.

 

“Geralt, can I ask a question?”

 

“Sure,” replied the witcher, resting his head back down on his forearms again.

 

“Are you magical – like a mage or wizard?”

 

“Hmm. Not exactly.”

 

“Then, what’s the difference between what you do and what a sorcerer does?”

 

“Well, we are all _essentially_ doing the same thing. That is, taking the chaotic power – the energy - found in nature and manipulating it, controlling it for our own purposes. But, there are several differences in how we do it. First off, magic users are born with their ability to harness the power.  Whereas, we – witchers - only acquire it due to the mutations.  Secondly, their ability, typically, requires the use of complicated incantations or spells.  I don’t know exactly how or why, but there’s something… _magical_ …in the words they speak that allows them to ensnare tremendous amounts of the Chaos. That makes them much more powerful, magically, than witchers. Also, and this depends upon the spell that they are using, but typically, they have to use both hands to wield their power. And, lastly, their spells – because of the time needed to speak the intricate incantations - generally take them several seconds to perform.  Contrast all of that with witcher Signs, which are done immediately, without incantations, and with one hand.” 

 

“Interesting. So, since you can wield the power, if you wanted, could you become a mage?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“I don’t know.  Possibly, but it’d take years – even decades – of training.  It’s true that mages are born with the power to wield magic, but they also have to go through extensive schooling in order to use it effectively. It takes a _long_ time.”

 

“And you’ve never been interested in trying it?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“That kind of magic isn’t conducive to witcher’s work.”

 

“How so?”

 

“The _sword_ is the witcher’s primary weapon of choice. Period.  Everything else that we use is supplemental.  So, having to use spells which require both hands does me no good…because that would mean that my sword would have to be sheathed.  Plus, _because_ the sword is our weapon of choice, witchers fight up close and personal.  Therefore, we need spells – Signs – that work instantaneously.  Signs that took three to four seconds to cast would be worthless.  The beast would be on me tearing my throat out before I even got half way through with the incantation.”

 

Evie was soaking in every word.  The historian in her was really wishing that she had a quill and parchment in hand instead of a needle and flesh.

 

As she continued to stitch up the witcher’s backside, she continued with her questions.

 

“I have another question about magic that has bothered me for a long time. Maybe you can answer it?”

 

“I’ll try.”

 

“Well, I’ve read numerous historical accounts of battles in which magic users were present.  The Battle of Sodden Hill is just one example.” 

 

“Uh-huh.  What’s your question?”

 

“I’ve read of just how powerful these magic users are.  One sorceress could call down huge balls of fire from the sky – wiping out entire platoons of men.”

 

“Yep, I’ve seen that myself.”

 

“Then, if that’s the case, why don’t these magic users control the world? They are more powerful than anyone.  Who could ever stand against them?  How is it that a magic user could ever be killed or captured by a non-magic user?  It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Huh? What do you mean?”

 

“Magic doesn’t make sense.  It’s not logical.  It’s not predictable…because it comes from Chaos.   It’s not part of this world or part of humans, naturally.”

 

“Okay…but how does that explain why mages don’t rule over us all?”

 

“Alright. Here’s a logical explanation.  The ability to use magic is a talent or skill, just like any other.  Everyone has the ability to pick up a brush and dab some paint on a canvas, but not everyone has the skill of van Rogh, right?  Well, the magic users that you’re talking about – the ones that can vaporize dozens of soldiers with a single spell – are equally as rare.  They are the elite of the elite.  Most magic users actually have less power than me.  They can do simple things like cure a sick cow or a case of the runs - which isn’t insignificant, especially if you have the runs. But, the elite magic users? They’re ones that, one, were born with an incredibly high-level of talent and, two, went through extensive training to maximize that talent to its fullest. We’re talking about…maybe twenty or thirty in the entire world that are at the level that you’re thinking of.”

 

“Okay. But, couldn’t those thirty be powerful enough to rule the world?”

 

“They could, but I’ve discovered, in my experience, that, thankfully, they’re a bunch of vipers.”

 

“Thankfully? Why are you thankful for that?”

 

“There are a few exceptions, but almost all are untrustworthy, power-hungry back-stabbers.  You put three magic users in a room and within a minute, two of them will be scheming on how to get rid of the third.  They can’t keep their alliances together, which is a good thing.  If they ever united…we’d be in trouble.” 

 

“Okay. Maybe that explains why they, collectively, don’t rule, but what about individually?  I’ve seen witches burned in Novigrad.  How is that they are ever even captured?  Can’t they cast portals that will allow them to escape?  Can’t they cast spells that change their appearance?  It just doesn’t make sense.”

 

“Well, again, the witches that you were seeing burn, probably weren’t the elite ones that we’re talking about.  They were probably more like herbalists or alchemists.  That said, even the elite ones aren’t omniscient or omnipotent.  They _can be_ caught unaware.  Detonate a dimeritium bomb in their vicinity, and then, they’re no more dangerous than anyone else.  In fact, they’re probably less dangerous.  Mages are so dependent upon their magic, they don’t ever even bother with learning things like physical training, hand-to-hand combat, or how to use a weapon.”

 

“Could a mage ever be beaten if they _weren’t_ caught by surprise?”

 

“Definitely.  They can be overwhelmed, but it’d take numbers. But…”

 

 After a long pause, the witcher continued, but his voice was different – more ominous.  

 

“There’s something else about magic that I haven’t explained.  Using magic exacts a toll.  And it’s a _high_ price.  Witchers can only do it because our bodies have been mutated, which was not only the most painful hell I’ve ever been through but also left me sterile. And all those elite magic users we’ve been talking about, they’ve paid a price, too.  They’re all sterile, as well. This power, this energy doesn’t want to be controlled.  It’s wild and chaotic, unnatural. It’s _deadly_.  It’s, like, the opposite of…life. Or, at least, the opposite of the way that life _should_ be. So, I guess it makes sense that we’ve had to give up our ability to procreate in order to use it. It’s as if there’s some unspoken pact – that to have the ability to use this power means we have to forsake the ability to pass it on.

 

“I’ve known many of these elite magic users, and a couple of them have told me the same thing – that, at times, when they’re casting their spells, they can feel the power pushing back at them.  As if it’s fighting back.  It’s why, they claim, that they can’t cast their spells perfectly every time. This is just pure speculation on my part, but I get the sense that there’s something -  and I don’t know what - holding this chaotic energy in check, and if this power was ever completely unleashed, it’d kill us all. That’s why I said it’s unpredictable. It’s why I don’t like portals. I just don’t trust the Chaos.”

 

Evie was completely still and quiet.

 

Geralt shook his head.

 

“Sorry, I got a little off topic.  Anyway, yeah, a mage could be defeated.  As I said, using it takes a toll.  A sorcerer can’t just cast powerful spells continuously, one after the other, non-stop.  They’d burn themselves out.  I’ve even seen them pass out from exhaustion.  Think of it like a muscle.  If I told you to sprint as fast as possible, you couldn’t do it forever. You’d have to rest pretty quickly.  That’s how some of these mages can be captured.  Their powerful spells might kill the first and second wave of attackers, but by the time the third or fourth wave comes, they got nothing left.”

 

            Evie was nodding her head at his explanation. 

 

“Thanks, Geralt. That was really interesting. And it explains a lot.” She then patted his left cheek.  “Okay. We’re all done.”   

 

            “Yeah?  So, how does it look?”   

 

            “Funny, Witcher. You’re not going to get me to answer that.”

 

            “Well, at least tell me that you didn’t sew my butt-cheeks together.”

 

oOo

 

            After being stitched up, Geralt downed another healing potion and, then, continued in his search for shelter that would be suitable for them to bed down for the evening. After another half hour, he finally found an adequate spot.  A cliff towered over them at least a hundred feet high on one side of their path.  Right at the point where the terrain turned from gently sloping to completely vertical was a small cave.  In actual fact, it was really less of a cave and more of an alcove.  The indention into the cliff’s face was perhaps only fifteen feet deep by ten feet wide.  But, it was deep enough that it would give them protection for the night. 

 

Geralt gave Evie some food rations from his saddlebags, and while she was eating, he went about tending to and feeding the horses. He then hobbled them so that they wouldn’t roam into danger during the night.  Finally, he set a half-dozen trip-wired traps further out on a half-circular perimeter as both protection and as a warning system.  When he returned to the alcove, he discovered Evie fast asleep near the back of the cave on a pallet of blankets, covered by his thick, winter cloak.  She was using one of his extra shirts as a pillow.  The witcher knelt down several feet away from her – as close to the entrance as possible - and began organizing the components that he’d need in order to replenish the decoctions, potions, and bombs that he’d used a few hours earlier in the attack on the nekker’s nest. Before getting to that, though, he discreetly slipped off his trousers, took out his needle and thread, and began mending the shredded leather. He knew that if he didn’t, then the tears would just continue to get bigger and bigger.  If he’d learned anything from Vesemir, it was the necessity to take care of his equipment – so that it, in return, could take care of him.  

 

oOo

 

_Vizima_

 

            Emhyr’s grasp on his empire was slipping.  His troops had stalled just south of the Pontar River, stuck in the quagmire that was Velen.  He was learning that the region was called “No Man’s Land” for a legitimate reason.  Despite the assistance of several powerful sorceresses, he had experienced multiple military defeats by King Radovid’s Redanian forces.  The cliché, “Necessity is the mother of all invention,” is a cliché for a reason, and it certainly applied in this case for the Redanians. Due to Radovid’s hatred of all things magical and his systematic persecution of everyone in his kingdom who even had a whiff of the arcane about them, virtually every mage and sorceress had fled his realm for other lands.  Therefore, Radovid possessed no mages to combat those of the south.  Thus, the Redanian king had enlisted the minds of the best scientists and engineers from Oxenfurt Academy to devise methods to neutralize the devastating effects of sorceress’s offensive spells.  Deep, covered trenches kept the infantry men protected during any magical, aerial bombardments. The Nordlings had also developed long range ballistae – far outside the reach of the mages’ spells – to rain down enormous amounts of dimeritium explosives on the Nilfgaardian side of the battlefield.  Using advanced telescopic devices, the Redanians could even pinpoint the exact location of the enemy sorceress.  This meant that the mage – before being crushed and burned with artillery fire - would have to immediately teleport away from the battlefield, which, in essence, removed their advantage.  Because their magical, fiery portals were so easy to spot, if the mage did teleport back into battle, the Redanian siege units would notice and quickly attack. They would immediately, then, follow up the dimeritium attack with traditional bombs, in the hope of actually killing the sorceress.  This, in fact, is how Assire var Anahid had died.  

 

In addition to all this, was the simple matter that the Redanians had the advantage of being on the defensive.  A basic military fact is that it is simply much more difficult and dangerous to dig out an entrenched enemy than it is to defend from attacking forces.  It also didn’t help that, because the Nilfgaardians were so far away from home and also in recently conquered, but still hostile lands, they were having difficulty maintaining their supply lines.  No matter how impressive an army, it still needs two things for victory – food and weapons. There was still much resistance to be found in the conquered lands of Temeria and Aedirn, and these freedom fighters knew that attacking the supply lines was a much more effective way of damaging the Black Ones than actually attacking the armed units on the front.  And, of course, this forced the Nilfgaardians to take many of their armed units from the field of battle and use them as escorts for the supply corps, which in turn hurt their ability to defeat the Redanian troops.

 

Despite all of these obvious advantages for the defending Redanians forces, with every defeat, the whispers questioning Emhyr’s ability to lead the Empire became more frequent and more pronounced. No one cared what Emhyr had already achieved.  No one cared that, in less than a year, he had conquered Temeria, Aedirn and all of the lands between the Yaruga and the Pontar Rivers.  Nobody cared that, in doing so, he had increased the size of the Empire by at least twenty percent, which was an incredible feat.  And the reason nobody cared, Emhyr knew, was because of one thing – expectations.  Why was it that two people could have virtually the same experience – eating the same meal at a tavern, listening to the same trobairitz sing, sleeping with same strumpet – and one could leave joyful while the other disappointed?  Simply put – their expectations going in.  Expectations could stir up excitement and build anticipation.  In fact, Emhyr had used this phenomenon to help build support for his invasion of the north.  On the other hand, when expectations weren’t met, it typically brought out the worst in people.  Their common spirit of entitlement surfaced.  The populace refused to focus on what they had and be grateful for that; instead, they focused on what they didn’t have and became resentful and bitter because they believed that it – whatever it was that they wanted - was their due.  Knowing all of this, the Emperor was aware that expectations, like highly volatile explosives, had to be handled with care. He knew that he only had himself to blame for, unfortunately, at the beginning of this Third Northern War, he and his military strategists had made it clear to those that mattered that the aim was to conquer all of the Northern kingdoms.  Thus, that was the expectation, and anything less would be deemed a failure.

 

 It seemed these days that Emhyr was facing as much opposition from internal enemies as from the armies from the north. What complicated matters even more was that the internal dissension came from two groups. One group was the commercial guilds, for these economic giants were – through both taxation and the supplying of goods - shouldering most of the load for financing and equipping the military.  These leaders of industry were happy to support Emhyr and his expansion as long as his soldiers were conquering new lands, which meant acquiring new resources and new avenues of trade.  But military defeats were something they wouldn’t tolerate.  Not because they were particularly patriotic, but because it affected something much more important – their bank accounts.

           

            The second group was composed of certain ambitious members of the Nilfgaardian noble class.  These were men and women who believed themselves superior to the common man not due to great deeds but simply due to their lineage.  They resented that Emhyr had never married one of their daughters and brought their bloodlines to the pinnacle of power and prestige that they believed they so rightly deserved. At the first sign of weakness, they would be ready to usurp the throne and place one of their own in power. Emhyr knew that dealing with the nobles was a necessary evil, and he was as wary of their smiles and flattery as he would be the purrs of a ferocious lion.  A lion that would flop on its side and expose its belly to draw you near and entice you into pets of affection, only to tear you to shreds with exposed claws and fangs moments later.

 

            As much as the Emperor worried about his future from both internal and external foes, he was also just as perplexed.  He clearly understood why King Radovid fought – to retain his power - but he couldn’t fathom why the people of Redania would choose to side with a tyrant like Radovid against the Empire.  The man hated anything and anyone non-human, including mages.  Emhyr didn’t understand why every sorceress, elf, dwarf, halfling, doppler, and the like simply didn’t take up arms and revolt. He knew that even many of the human Redanians were not pleased with the direction “The Stern” had taken their country.  So why wage war against the Empire, especially since he – the Emperor - had clearly shown what type of prosperity could be had under his magnanimous rule?  The Nilfgaardians were undoubtedly the most enlightened nation on the Continent.  They were the leaders of the arts and sciences, of architect and engineering, of military and commerce.  There was a reason that the numerous provinces and duchies that lived under the Empire’s banner never revolted.  He may have been ruthless to the opposing countries during battle, but he firmly believed in instilling peace, prosperity, and a strong infrastructure afterwards.  The fact that the people of Redania were too ignorant to see or understand this truth just gave credence to his belief that they _needed_ him as a ruler in order to do what was in their best interest.  He needed to save them from themselves. But, the Emperor knew that he was running out of time.  He needed a decisive and visible military victory to quiet the whispers of dissension and reestablish the balance of power.

 

            It was at this moment that Emhyr heard a knock on the side door of his chambers – a door that only one other man ever used.  After closing and locking the main entryway to his chambers, the Emperor opened the door to one of the few men that he actually trusted. 

 

            “Malek, what news do you bring?”

 

            The man, simply known as Malek, was an imposing presence, standing a head taller than the Emperor and with shoulders so broad he barely fit through the doorway.  But it was more than his size that instilled reverence and fear in those around him.  He had the chiseled features of the heroes of epic ballads, with long, flowing ebony hair that just touched the top of his equally black, leather armor. His square jaw was covered with a neatly trimmed beard, which – like the hair on his head – was showing more signs of gray with each passing year. But, that feature only served to enhance his distinguished bearing.  His long, thin nose was slightly crooked – the result of blow in battle.  But the imperfection not only didn’t mar his visage, it in fact gave him a more dangerous air. Set between prominent cheekbones and thick brows were piercing, light blue eyes – the color of a frozen pond. In total, he exuded power, which inspired loyalty in his troops and lustful thoughts in even the most chaste of women.

 

            No one knew of Malek’s true rank or position in the Nilfgaardian military anymore, but he only took orders from the Emperor himself.  He and his handpicked squad of men had become Emhyr’s most trusted and reliable tool.   Whatever sensitive, delicate, and covert missions the Emperor needed done – security details, espionage, assassination attempts - he knew that he could count on Malek.  It had been Malek, for instance, who had first investigated, contacted and convinced Letho of Gulet and his two School of Viper associates to take part in the intricate plot to eliminate the Northern kingdom’s monarchs several years back.  Simply put, the man solved problems.

 

            “We have a lead, your Majesty,” Malek stated as he showed Emhyr the “Missing” placard adorned with Evie’s face.

 

            The Emperor felt a surge of hope within.  Perhaps this could turn the tide of the war.

 

“Do everything in your power to find her.  Nothing else is more important.”

 

            “Understood, your Majesty.”

 

oOo

 

            Evie slowly opened her eyes, and for a brief moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, but there was enough ambient light entering the alcove that she was able to see the witcher, on his knees a few feet from her. His back was to her, and he was situated between her and the entrance of the alcove, almost like a sentry guarding a treasure.  She quietly got up and tiptoed around to the front of him so that she could see his face.  Then, she slowly and carefully sat down in front of him. His eyes were closed, and Evie couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or if he was simply doing his witcher-meditation.  She honestly didn’t know if it was even possible for witchers to sleep in a kneeling position. She studied him intently.  His long, white hair, pulled back in a ponytail, looked a little greasy.  But, that made sense.  Hers was greasy, too, since it had been several days since she’d last washed it.  She took in his face – weathered, wrinkled and scarred. Her eyes followed the vertical scar that ran from above his left brow down past his cheekbone.  She resisted the urge to reach out and gently trace it with her fingertips. She knew that, after last night, he’d have four more scars to add to his collection. She wondered at just how much pain the witcher had felt in his life. She wondered at how much of it found him simply through fate and how much he actually sought out on his own. 

 

            She doubted that there was a man alive who had experienced as much death and violence as the one kneeling before her. If the legends of witchers were accurate, then she knew that from the time that he was a small child, he had been trained – and his body mutated – to do just one thing – to kill, but not for a particularly noble purpose.  He wasn’t a soldier trained to kill out of duty to one’s country. Nor was he a knight-errant trained to keep law and order or to defend the oppressed.  In fact, he had made it clear to her just yesterday. He had been raised as a simple mercenary - to kill for money. 

 

            She wondered about his childhood. Did he ever know his parents?  Did he grow up with any brothers and sisters? Did he ever have any friends with whom he could just laugh and play?  Had he ever been held and hugged and loved?  She strongly doubted it. She pictured a small, frightened, six-year old Geralt being harassed and driven by some grizzled witcher taskmaster, and she suddenly felt like crying. She wanted to reach out and hold him. With that type of loveless childhood, it was no wonder witchers acted the way they did and had the reputation that they had.  How could an adult show kindness, compassion and empathy to others if they’d never received and learned of love as a child? 

 

So, why was the man kneeling in front of her different?  Despite his claim that he didn’t take action if coin wasn’t involved, she knew that wasn’t, in fact, true.  For some reason, he had chosen to spare Tayron - armed with an axe - in the Tarsus bar a week ago.  For some reason, he had chosen to intervene and save her from being brutally raped and probably murdered.  For some reason, he had then spent a week showing her compassion by tending to her injuries.  And he had received not a single coin for any of those acts of kindness.  But, on the other hand, she could still remember the horrible screams of her attacker after the witcher had set him on fire. There was both a brutality and a tenderness to Geralt that she was having a hard time reconciling.  

 

            “So how long are you going to sit there staring at me?”

 

Evie was suddenly startled from her thoughts by the witcher’s voice.

 

            She looked and saw that Geralt’s eyes were still closed.  “I thought I was being incredibly quiet,” she said.

 

            “I heard you when you woke up.  Your breathing changed and your heart rate increased.”

 

            Evie shook her head in bewilderment.  “Your senses are incredible. Do you ever sleep?”

 

            The witcher opened his eyes. “Not anymore. I _can_ sleep, but I don’t remember the last time that I actually did.  And the truth is that I don’t need to.  An hour or two of meditation, and I feel fully rested.”

 

            What Geralt wasn’t telling Evie was the reason why he chose to never sleep anymore. He was afraid that he’d still be plagued by nightmares of Ciri’s death - nightmares that had tormented him in those drunken months the past summer. He could still remember them vividly.  Finding her face down on a desolate, grey, rocky plain. Her frozen body as cold and hard as stone. Turning her over, to see maggots and worms eating her flesh, crawling from her eyes. And hearing her voice, ‘Why didn’t you save me, Geralt? I was counting on you.’ He would then see long, thick, black serpents rise up from the ground beside her.  He’d reach back for his sword, but when he’d draw it from its scabbard, it would turn to ash.  As the snakes wrapped themselves around Ciri’s body, he’d try to pry them away to no avail. And then the earth would open up and draw her downward.  All the while, she would be crying out to him for help, while he stood there unable to save her. It was those nightmares that had, originally, led Geralt to his heavy drinking. He didn’t know if the nightmares would still be present if he slept, and as of yet, he was still unwilling to find out.

 

            “So, when you meditate, you’re still completely aware of your surroundings?” Evie asked.

 

            “Yeah. It’s a little hard to explain.  Both my body and mind slow down and go into a restful state, but I can still sense everything going on around me.”

 

            “What about food?  I haven’t seen you eat hardly anything?”

 

            Geralt smirked. “Is this research, Professor? Interviewing me so that you can write a book?”

 

            Evie blushed a bit. “I’m sorry. I guess my professional side is showing.  I’m just…curious about you.”

 

            “It’s okay.” Geralt smiled to try to reassure her that he wasn’t irritated by her questions. “I do have to eat.  My body does need energy, but nothing like you humans need. I can go five or six days between meals and still be fine.”

 

            “That’s amazing. Do you know exactly why that is?”

 

            The witcher shrugged. “I’d guess that it’s simply due to the mutations in my body.  You know, I’ve never done an autopsy on a witcher’s body before so I don’t even know what our organs look like.  But, I assume that the mutagens simply transformed our bodies into highly efficient - I don’t know the right word – organisms or machines.  Compared to humans, we’re faster, stronger, and more agile.  As you know, our senses are highly advanced. We don’t have to sleep, we don’t have to eat or drink much, we’re immune to diseases, we recover from injuries quite easily, we don’t have to relieve ourselves, we don’t-”

 

            “Wait, what? You don’t have to relieve yourself? You’re kidding.”

 

            Geralt shook his head. “Nope. Not kidding. I haven’t had to relieve myself in over ninety years.  I guess my organs are so efficient that they simply use every bit of the food and liquids I consume. So, there’s nothing left to…excrete.”

 

            Evie nodded her head. “It makes sense.  I just never would have thought about that.”

 

            “Is there anything else you want to know about witchers?”

 

            She looked into his eyes. “About witchers, no.  About you, yes.”

 

            Geralt didn’t say a word. He just stared at Evie’s face. He couldn’t detect a trace of deceit or duplicity in her eyes. Just sincerity and tenderness. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly became very aware of his body.  He felt a rush of adrenaline, his heart rate increase, and his skin get warm.  And he felt a desire to know more about this woman in front of him. To know her secrets, her fears, the feel of her lips.

 

            “What do you want to know?” he asked in an almost whisper.

 

            “Who is Ciri?” she asked softly.

 

            He looked to the ground and swallowed. He knew how relationships worked. He realized that if he wanted to know her secrets, then he’d have to share some of his own.  And, strangely enough, there was a part of him that wanted her to know.  Maybe if she knew, the nightmares would go away. _“‘A burden shared is a burden halved’ and all that crap,”_ he thought to himself.  He nodded his head slightly and then peered back into her eyes. 

 

“She was my daughter.”   

 

            For the next hour, Geralt proceeded to tell Evie of his and Ciri’s life together. He told her that Ciri was his Surprise Child, of how their lives had circled each other’s for years until he had finally taken her in and trained her to be a witcher. He told her of Ciri’s connection to Lara Dorren, the Elder blood, and the power she possessed.  He spoke of the Wild Hunt, and he concluded with how Ciri had given her life in saving the world from the White Frost.  When he had finished, there was a natural moment of silence, and the witcher’s head was bowed low.

 

            Evie reached out and touched Geralt’s cheek. 

 

“Geralt, your daughter’s a hero. She saved millions of lives.  She’s given this whole world a gift - a future free from the White Frost. We’ve inherited a future that can be full of hope and optimism, all because of her.”  

 

            The witcher raised his head and looked at Evie.

 

“That’s the problem with an inheritance.  Someone has to die for you to get it. And it’s usually someone you love.” He stood, walked to the entrance of the alcove, and stared out. “You know, I would almost be okay with her sacrifice if I thought this world was worth saving.  At least then, I could rationalize that her death was worth it, that it actually meant something. But, she gave up her life for a world full of…evil and hate and injustice.  A world whose motto is, ‘Do unto others _before_ they do unto you.’ I would rather that she had…” He paused, sighed, and closed his eyes. “I still miss her.”  

 

            Evie rose to her feet and walked up behind the grieving man.  She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her chest and cheek to his back.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry.”

 

            After a few moments of silence, the witcher said in a low voice, “I wish I could cry.  I can remember crying as a little boy, before I took the mutagens…but I can’t cry anymore. Maybe it’s my memory playing tricks on me, but I could swear that I always felt a little better afterwards.”

 

            “I’ll cry for you then.” 

 

            As she hugged him tighter, the witcher’s hand moved upward – as if by instinct. He grasped hers and held it tightly to his chest. They stood there for a while - the witcher staring out at nothing as the sun peeked over the horizon.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The summer sun was bright and baking the land. It was midday, and Geralt and Evie had been traveling, both on horseback and on foot, for six or seven hours.  There had been very little conversation between the two, but not because Evie had nothing to say. There were so many things that she wanted to ask of and discuss with Geralt.  However, he had made it clear that talking would be a distraction and that he needed all of his senses tuned into the highly dangerous surroundings.  If “The Battle of Nekker Meadow” the previous day didn’t convince her of that reality, then what happened next certainly did.   

 

            As the two were riding along, with the witcher in the lead, Geralt suddenly stopped and held up his hand in a closed fist – their previously agreed to signal to “freeze.”  He immediately used Axii on both horses to keep them calm and quiet.  Quickly dismounting Roach, he grabbed Evie’s reins and led them underneath the thick canopy of a nearby tree.  After almost thirty seconds of silence, Evie heard a distant “whooshing” sound, and moments later, a shadow crossed the terrain in front of them.  She peered through the limbs of the tree and caught sight of an incredibly large, flying creature.  She immediately thought that she was seeing a dragon.  It looked like it was at least thirty feet across, from wing tip to wing tip. Her heart began to race and her muscles tensed as she waited to see what would happen next. As the beast continued flying westward away from the two travelers, Evie exhaled deeply.  She hadn’t even realized that she had been holding her breath.

 

            “Just a basilisk. Let’s go,” the witcher stated calmly, as if he had seen nothing more than a stray puppy cross his path.  He turned to look at Evie and saw tears welling up in her eyes.  “What’s wrong?”

 

            Suddenly, the stress of the previous twenty-four hours came crashing down on the scholar.

 

“What the hell am I doing out here?” Her voice had a trace of panic in it.  “I’ve spent most of my life in classrooms and libraries and museums.  I’m not some battle-hardened warrior.  I wouldn’t last an hour out here on my own. And I’m probably going to get you killed.  At some point, we are going to be attacked again, and you’ll be distracted, having to worry about protecting me. And that doesn’t even take into account that we probably already have a battalion of Niflgaardian soldiers now hunting us down. If the monsters don’t get us, then they will.” 

 

            The witcher looked at her, scratched his chin, and slightly nodded his head. 

 

“That sounds about right.”

 

            She shook her head and laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

 

“So, you’re not even going to attempt to humor me and tell me I’m wrong, tell me that we’ll be fine?”   

 

            He shook his head.

 

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

 

            A look of confusion filled her face.

 

“Then, why…why are you doing this?  You’re risking your life for me and we’ve known each other hardly a week.  Why are you helping me?”

 

            Geralt looked at Evie for a long time. The witcher knew he could give her a trite answer and simply be done with it. Then, they could be on their way.  But, he doubted she would believe a trite answer.  She was too smart for that, and they had already shared so many intimate details with each other that it didn’t make any sense to do so anyway.  He debated whether to tell her, “Because you’re my chance to make a difference.  You’re my starfish. You need help against the dark tides and storms of this world, and there’s simply no one else here.” He even considered saying, “Because you’re my ‘do-over.’ I didn’t save Ciri so I’m gonna do my damnedest to save you.”  But he didn’t give her either of those answers.  While both of those statements were true, they didn’t come anywhere close to conveying the full story behind his motivations.

 

He finally asked, “Do you believe there’s a god?”  

 

            His question was so unexpected that she simply asked, “What?”

 

            “Do you believe that there is an actual god? Not wooden idols or statues that people worship, but a true, legitimate god? Some higher power that created all of this?”

 

            “I…what’s that got to do with why you’re helping me?”

 

            The witcher exhaled slowly and then said, “Let’s have a seat. This may take awhile.” 

 

After they were both sitting in the shade of the tree, the witcher reached into his front pocket for his pipe. Upon finding it missing, he remembered that he’d last used it as a weapon in the Tarsus bar.

 

“Damn. This was definitely going to be a pipe-smoking conversation,” he said with a wistful smile.

 

Evie simply sat there with her hands in her lap and returned his smile. She had already come to understand the witcher a bit – that he, occasionally, needed time to order his thoughts, and she just needed to give him a moment of uninterrupted silence.

 

            Sure enough, seconds later, he looked into Evie’s eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

 

“There was a point in my life, when I was younger, when I thought that there had to be a god.  I can’t really remember how old I was – probably in my late teens or early twenties. But I can remember being on the Path, lying out under the stars each night and contemplating the universe – wondering just have far away the constellations were. At some point, I realized that the universe has to go on forever.  There can’t be an end to it, a wall surrounding it, because if there is, the next logical question is, ‘Then, what’s on the other side of that wall?’ And that idea…the idea of infinity – of having no limits, no beginning or end - just made me believe that there has to be a god, something greater than me.  Because, I’ll be honest, I just can’t wrap my mind around the concepts of infinity…or eternity.  It’s the same concept if I ask you the question, ‘Where did you come from? Who created you?’”

 

“My parents.”

 

“Right.  And who created them?”

 

“Their parents.”

 

“Right.  But, that process can’t go backwards into the past forever.  Logically, there had to be a first person, or rather a first couple, who started it all. But, then, the question becomes, ‘Well, then who created that first couple?’ Right? They had to come from somewhere. And the only answer that I could come up with is God. Some kind of higher power – outside of our time-space continuum - that wasn’t created, that has just always existed, for eternity.”

 

“You know, some people theorize that there isn’t a creator, that the universe just came to be by accident - in a spontaneous explosion of gas and particles.”

 

At that, Geralt pulled his silver sword from its scabbard and held it out in front of him. A few rays from the sun found their way through the tree’s canopy and sparkled off the blade.

 

“Look at this sword. Look at the level of detail, the intricacy. Could anyone _honestly_ believe that this sword just came to be by accident, that all of its parts just randomly formed together? Nobody in their right mind would believe that.  Obviously, someone had to design it and create it.  But, this sword can’t even _remotely_ compare to the intricate details found in our bodies or found in nature.”

 

“Hey, I didn’t say I believed it. I’m just playing devil’s advocate,” Evie stated with a smile.

 

“Fair enough, but even if that theory is true, then my question is, ‘Where did the gas and particles come from?’ Someone or something had to create those.  A ‘someone’ or ‘something’ that has always existed.  I will just never believe that something can _naturally_ be created out of nothing.  There’s nothing in this world that makes me believe that is possible. Even magic can’t do that.  Even sorcerers, when they conjure something, are simply taking energy already found in nature and transforming it into something else. Only the _supernatural_ can create something out of nothing.”

 

Evie just nodded her head.  She was enjoying listening to him, wanting to understand him better. And if she was truthful, she was slightly amazed at how deep and insightful his thoughts were.  He was, once again, destroying the world’s  preconceived notions on how a witcher thought and acted.  At that point, she decided that she just needed to take her copy of _Monstrum_ and toss it into the rubbish bin.

 

“That makes sense,” she said, nodding her head again, encouraging him to continue. “It’d be hard to refute your points so far. Though…I’m still not sure where you’re going with this.”

 

            “I’ll get there. I promise,” he answered. “So, once I determined that there has to be some kind of supernatural entity, I then set out trying to figure more about it.  And most people – religions - consider this supernatural entity to be a god.  And, let me tell you, I looked into all of them – Melitele, Kreve, the Nilfgaardian Sun, Freya, the Eternal Fire, the prophet Lebioda – just to name a few.  But, the more I investigated, the more frustrated I became.  I found all of them to be lacking. None of those religions could – or can - answer my questions. Questions of how we came to be, who we are, why we’re here, why this world is so broken, or what happens after death. 

 

“Eventually, my frustrations led me to cynicism.  I concluded that whatever this higher power is, it’s just a completely ‘hands off,’ impersonal, uncaring force. I started viewing religions as a joke and religious people as fools.  Later in life, I was in a long-term relationship, and she and I used to mock people who prayed, ridiculed people who believed that there was some personal god who actually cared for them, who would deign to help them.  We saw them as self-deluded and weak – too weak-willed and too weak-minded to get through life on their own. 

 

“But, my problem with religion wasn’t just the fact that none of them were capable of answering my questions in a satisfactory way.  There was another reason that no religion ever resonated with me.”

 

“Which was?” Evie asked.

 

“They don’t bring to me what all religious people claim their religion brings – specifically, peace and freedom. Peace of mind and freedom from fear, freedom from guilt. When you boil all religions down to their essence, they are all the same.  They all require me to follow an arbitrary list of do’s and don’ts if I want to reach nirvana or heaven or the next realm or whatever they call being ‘accepted’ or judged ‘worthy’ by their god.  My ‘virtue’ or ‘righteousness’ or ability to move on to the next plane all comes down to whether I can do more good deeds in life than bad deeds.”

 

“Okay, but what’s wrong with that?” asked Evie.  “I would think that a system of judgment like that would be something you’d agree with.  I know that we’ve only known each other a short while, but through our conversations, it seems like the idea of ‘justice’ is something you hold dear.  So, what’s wrong with the idea of good deeds leading to good consequences and bad deeds leading to bad consequences? Isn’t that, essentially, what justice is?” 

 

The witcher nodded. “Absolutely.  I strongly believe in justice, and my definition of justice is that we get what we deserve.  If I perform a ‘righteous’ act, I deserve a reward, and if I perform an evil act, then I deserve punishment. And that’s why I have a problem with every religion that I’ve ever come across.”

 

“Geralt, I’ll be honest, it seems like your contradicting yourself.”

 

He shook his head.  “It’s simple.  There’s no justice in a religion that uses an imaginary set of scales as a method for determining one’s eternal fate.  On the surface, it _looks_ like such a system is fair and just, but in reality it’s not.  I’ll give you an example.  As a hypothetical, let’s say that a week before I saved your life, I killed a man out of greed – simply to take his money. And this man had both a wife and a child. Then, a week later I save your life from those four bandits in the bar.  So, in a span of a week, I’ve taken a life and I’ve saved a life.  Do those two acts balance themselves out on that set of scales?  Did my one good deed wipe away my one bad deed?  Religions would say so.  Religion states that if I do something ‘bad,’ then I have to do something ‘good’ to ‘pay it off’.  To balance it out, to wipe the slate clean. And that ‘payment’ will be different based on the specific religion. In some religions, the payment might be prayer, for some it might be that I have to give alms, for others, it might be that I have to punish myself physically, or a vow of silence, whatever.  But regardless of the religion and regardless of the ‘payment,’ it still boils down to my ‘good’ deeds have to outweigh my ‘bad’ deeds.  But, I don’t believe that’s justice.  I can guarantee you that the wife and the child of the man that I hypothetically murdered certainly wouldn’t think that is justice.  How is it just or fair that I’ve murdered their husband and father and will face no eternal consequences simply because I saved your life a week later?  That’s not justice.  That’s not me getting what I deserve.”

 

“Okay, I see what you’re saying.  But, for the sake of argument, let’s say, then, that not all acts are equal.  Not all ‘good’ or ‘bad’ acts hold the same amount of worth or ‘weight’ on the scales.” 

 

            “Alright.  Let’s think about that logically.  So, the premise is that not all acts hold the same weight.  So, if I do one really heinous act, then I have to do five or ten good acts as payment for that – to balance it out on the scales.  And one really virtuous act – like saving a life – will wipe away five or ten minor bad deeds.  I have several issues with that type of religion. 

 

            “First, as I said before, it’s completely arbitrary.  None of us know what the equations are.  There is no ‘menu’ from God stating that one lie is equal to five random acts of kindness.  Or, that to balance out a theft I have to give ten times that amount back to a charity.  Hell, are all thefts even the same?  If I steal from someone simply because I’m greedy is that the same as if I steal from them because my wife and children are starving and we have no food so I stole some bread so that they could live?  Or what if the person I stole from is a rich, racist miser who is despicable and treats everyone like dirt?  Does that make the theft “lighter” on the imaginary scale compared to a theft from a kind, poor farmer who, himself, had barely enough money to feed his family?  No one and no religion can answer those questions.

 

            “Here’s my second issue.  I can’t speak for anyone else, but I sought out God because I was looking for answers.  I was looking for peace of mind.  I was looking for a peace in my soul.  These religions that I’ve looked into don’t and wouldn’t give me any of that because they would simply turn me into nothing but a moralistic bookkeeper.”

 

“Wait. What do you mean?  


“At the end of each day, I’d have to tally up all of my ‘bad’ thoughts, words, and deeds and put those in the negative column.  And then I’d have to add up all my virtuous deeds and put those in the plus column.  And then I have to hope my good deeds balanced out the bad.  And if not, then I have to pay it off somehow, and I’d better pay it off before I go to sleep.  Because, otherwise, if I die before I can get it balanced, then I’m doomed for eternity.  And then the next day, guess what?  I get to do it all over again.  And I get to do that _every day_ for the rest of my life. You know what - to hell with that.  I have no interest in that type of religion.  There’s _no peace_ in that.  That would be nothing but exhausting.  And there’s no _freedom_ in that.  It would just enslave me to constant worry – constant worry about where I stood with God in that specific moment.”

 

Evie nodded her head. “I see your point.”  After a moment, she continued. “Are those your only complaints with religion, or do you have more?” she asked with a smile.

 

            Geralt didn’t say anything.  He just stared into Evie’s eyes for a moment and then looked away.  He then met her eyes again and took a deep breath.

 

“Yeah…I do.  My real issue is that no religion that I’ve ever come across can truly deal with what I am.”

 

“What do you mean – ‘what’ you are?”

 

            “Evie, I am 100 years old, and I’ve done so much evil in my past that there is no amount of virtuous deeds that I could ever do that would wipe it all away.  I could give up my swords today and live another hundred years as some kind of religious hermit, but it still wouldn’t balance out all the bad that I’ve done. And that doesn’t even take into account the bad that I’d continue to do in the future.  I’ve tried to live “good.” I _can’t_ do it.  I still lose my temper. I still catch myself telling a lie here and there. At times, I still ignore people who are in need. It’s impossible for me to be good all of the time, no matter how much I try. I can’t even live up to my own expectations and standards.  I _certainly_ can’t live up to a god’s.”

 

            “Geralt, none of us can…but you _are_ good.  I see it in you.  You spared Tayron.  You saved me in the bar. You nursed me back to life.  You chose not to kill those soldiers in my cabin.  You’re helping me now.  Those are all acts of selflessness and kindness. Of goodness.”

 

            He shook his head. “Evie, it doesn’t truly matter how I act.  It doesn’t change who I am on the inside.” At this, the witcher stood up and walked a few paces away. “When people call me a mutant and a monster, they’re right. I am.”

 

            “Geralt –”

 

            “No. Please…listen. I…I need to say this. There’s a _darkness_ inside of me, Evie. It’s so black and twisted that, I swear, sometimes, I think I can actually hear its voice.  It is constantly telling me to kill, to destroy. I can remember being an incredibly angry little boy, with a vicious temper.  But, I had to learn how to control it.   If I lost my temper with any of my witcher instructors...you can’t imagine how harshly I was disciplined.  So, I learned that I just had to keep it inside. Either that, or use it as fuel for my training.  Then, after I was first given mutagens when I was eight, it just got worse.  My anger turned to rage. But, I still couldn’t and didn’t show it externally.  But, inside, it consumed me. Then, after I passed the Trial of Grasses and they saw how well my body handled their normal round of mutagens, they decided to give me more.  They gave me experimental mutagens that, as far as I know, no other witcher has ever taken.  It’s why my hair turned white and why my abilities surpass those of other witchers. But after that, that rage inside of me turned murderous.  It’s as if the mutagens didn’t just mutate my body; they mutated my mind, my thoughts, too. The anger that was naturally inside of me got twisted it into a monster.  Because after that, I wanted to destroy everything and everyone that wronged me in the slightest.  That rage has been with me my entire life. So, people are wrong when they say I’m stripped of emotions.  I’ve got plenty. I just don’t show them.”

 

            At that point, the witcher stared hard into Evie’s eyes.

 

            “You say I’m good? Evie, I _wanted_ to kill Tayron – to drive my blade right through his heart.  I wanted to kill those three soldiers in your cabin – to watch their blood run.  And those four men that I killed to save you…I relished it.  The darkness in me was screaming with delight.  So, how can you say I’m good?”

 

            Evie was quiet for a long time.

 

“Okay, Geralt.  I think it would be insulting for me to argue with you about your feelings.  If you say that you have this feeling inside you, then I’ll take your word for it.  That said, doesn’t it count for anything that you don’t act on those desires?  You may have wanted to kill Tayron and those soldiers, but the fact is that you didn’t.  Doesn’t that alone prove that you’re not a monster?  That you are human? That there is goodness in you? I believe we’re defined by our motivations, not by our feelings or thoughts or, even, our actions.  And it’s clear to me that, in spite of these murderous feelings you say that you have inside of you, you try to do ‘good.’ I want to believe that God is a forgiving god.  No, we’re not perfect, but if we try our best to do ‘good’, if our hearts are in the right place – as I believe yours is - then he’ll forgive us of our wrong actions.  Wouldn’t that give you peace?  Wouldn’t that give you freedom from fear and guilt– knowing that God forgives you?”

 

            “A forgiving god?” he asked, slightly shaking his head. “Give me a minute. I need some time to think about that.”

 

Geralt closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if in deep thought.  He stayed like that for over a minute before opening his eyes and speaking.

 

“Okay. First off, I’ve never come across any religion that states that God is forgiving.  As I said, every religion I’ve looked into says that I have to earn my righteousness by my deeds. That my bad deeds aren’t simply forgiven. They have to be paid for or balanced out or wiped clean by my good deeds.   I’ve also made it clear that I don’t believe that that’s even possible for me. 

 

            “Also, the idea of forgiveness sounds great, but my sense of fairness would _never_ let me believe in a forgiving god because a forgiving god cannot also be a just god.”

 

            “Wait. Explain that to me, please.”

 

            “Forgiveness is the antithesis of justice. As I said earlier, my definition of justice is that I get what I deserve – whether good or bad.  But, forgiveness is when I _don’t_ get what I deserve.  If I break a law, and I’m standing in front of a magistrate who is going to decide my fate, then if he punishes me, that’s justice.  I deserve that punishment.  But, if I’m standing in front of that same magistrate, and he simply lets me go despite me being guilty of a crime, then that’s actually an injustice.  You can call that forgiveness if you like.  But, what it clearly is not is ‘justice.’  It’s _impossible_ to reconcile those two concepts – forgiveness and justice.  Therefore, I just can’t understand how a just god can also be a forgiving god.  And if you tell me that God is not just or fair, then, I’ll be honest, that’s not a god that I want to worship.  That’s not a god I want to trust and follow. That _certainly_ wouldn’t give me any peace.”

 

            “So, then, what would God have to be like in order for you to trust and follow him - or her or it?”

 

            “For simplicity’s sake – so that we don’t have to keep saying ‘him, her, or it’, let’s just call God a ‘him.’   For me to worship a god, I’d have to know that he is three things. And he’d have to be _all_ three of these things.  Just being two of the three wouldn’t do.”

 

            “Okay. What three things?”

 

            “God would need to be ‘all powerful,’ ‘all wise’ and ‘all good’ for me to trust him and turn my life over to him.  Anything less and I could never trust that entity with my life. And by ‘all good’ I’m talking about a multitude of qualities like moral rightness, a sense of justice, loving kindness, a faithfulness to his promises, and so forth.

 

            “Now, let’s just say that he possesses only two of those qualities.  Let’s say that he’s ‘all powerful’ and ‘all wise’ but not ‘all good.’ Now, this is certainly a god that I would do my best to obey, if for no other reason than I would be fearful that if I didn’t, then he would destroy me. But, I wouldn’t trust that god.  If he’s not ‘all good,’ then I wouldn’t trust that his plans are in my best interest.  I wouldn’t trust that he cares for me. That god – while powerful and wise - could also be nothing but a spiteful, vindictive god.  So even if I did obey him, it would be nothing but begrudging submission. That is certainly not a god that would instill in me any kind of peace of mind or soul. Nor would that god grant me freedom from fear.”

 

            “Makes sense. I can agree with that.  What about if the god is ‘all good’ and ‘all wise’ but not ‘all powerful?’”

 

            “Well, that’s a god that I would certainly care for and would want to have a relationship with.  If he was ‘all good’ and full of righteousness and love, then I could know that he truly cares for me. If he’s ‘all wise,’ then he’s a god that I’d certainly want to seek answers from. But, I wouldn’t have any peace of mind or soul with this god either, because if he is not ‘all powerful,’ then that means his plans can be thwarted. Either thwarted by other gods – evil gods - or by any of us beings down here on the planet.  If a god is not ‘all powerful’ then that mean’s he’s not in control. Not in control of the universe, not in control of the events happening on this planet, not in control of what’s going on in my life.  I could trust that that god has my best interest in mind and that he’s got a great plan, but I can’t trust that he actually has the ability to implement and execute that plan. There’s no peace in that scenario either.”

 

“And a god who is ‘all powerful’ and ‘all good’ but not ‘all wise?’”

 

            Geralt nodded.  “Again, I’d try to obey this god because he’s ‘all powerful.’  And I’d also want a relationship with this god because he’s ‘all good’.  However, if he’s not ‘all wise’ then how can I truly trust that his plans are best?  If he’s not all wise, then that means he can sometimes make mistakes – that his decisions can be wrong.  It means that the plans that he thought were for the best, actually aren’t. I can’t truly trust a god like that.  There would always be doubts that his commands weren’t actually the best course of action for my life.  For, example, let’s take the issue of sex.  It seems that all religions – and by extension, the gods of those religions – have some belief and command regarding sex.  And it goes from one end of the spectrum – that sex is something we should abstain from or that it’s only for procreation purposes and not for enjoyment – to the other end of the spectrum – that there are no limits to our sex life, that we can do whatever want, whenever we want, with whomever we want.  But, if god isn’t ‘all wise,’ then how can I trust that his command regarding sex – or anything else for that matter - is actually right?  I can’t.  In that case, it’s possible that I actually know what’s better for my life more so than he does.

 

            “If God isn’t ‘all powerful,’ ‘all wise,’ and ‘all good,’ then I can’t trust him.  And if I can’t trust him, then how can I ever have inner peace and freedom from fear?”

           

            “So, to sum up, the only religion that you’d be willing to follow is one in which the god is –” and at this Evie began ticking her fingers – “‘all powerful,’ ‘all wise,’ ‘all good,’ full of love and compassion, and also is somehow just and forgiving at the same time.  Is that right?”

 

            Geralt had a small smirk on his face. “Well, when you say it out loud, it sounds a little impossible, huh?”

 

Evie smirked back.  “Just a little. Have you found this god?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then, Geralt, what’s this entire discussion been about?  Why did you ask me about god when I asked you why you’re helping me?”

 

“It’s related to what you mentioned before – about you saying I’m a good person.”

 

“Which you denied. You claim to only have darkness in you, right?”

 

“Actually, no.”

 

Evie had a confused look on her face. Geralt held up a hand and continued, “If I agreed with you that there actually is goodness in me, how would _you_ explain the presence of that goodness?”

 

Evie was pensive for a moment.

 

“Like I said earlier, your ability to not act on your dark urges shows that you’re ‘good,’ that you’re human and not a mutant or a monster.”

 

“Hmm. I find it interesting that you equate my ‘goodness’ with my humanity.  I couldn’t disagree with you more.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

“Do you remember a few days ago, when I had a bit of a rant about how we don’t come out of the womb prejudiced? That we have to be taught it?”

 

Evie nodded.

 

“Well, while we may not come out of the womb prejudiced, it’s my opinion that we do come out of the womb completely selfish – turned in on ourselves.  While I’ve never raised an infant, in my hundred years, I’ve seen enough of them to know what’s in our nature – human nature. It ain’t pretty, and it ain’t goodness.”

 

“What? So little babies are evil?”

 

“Well, they sure as hell aren’t innocent or good.”

 

“Oh, come on!”

 

“I’m serious. While we have to be taught bigotry, we _don’t_ have to be taught dishonesty or selfishness or violence or jealousy.  It’s in our nature.  We’re born with it. I’ll give you an example. Have you ever seen a group of two-year olds?  Have you seen them when they don’t get their way?  There’s screaming, crying, punching, kicking, biting.  No one taught them that.  No one taught them that, if you don’t get your way, then it’s right to bite someone.  No one models that behavior for them.  It’s just in them.  No one has to teach a little child to lie.  It’s just in them.  No one sits them down and says, ‘Now, I realize that all you know how to do is tell the truth, but I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson – the art of deception.’  No, if anything, children have to be taught the exact opposite.  They have to be taught that lying is wrong.  They have to be taught how and why to share with others.  They have to be taught not to turn violent when they don’t get their way.  They have to be taught that, if they see another child with a treat, then it’s not okay to simply go over and knock the kid down and take it.  And if they don’t learn those lessons when they’re young, then they’ll grow up to be dishonest, selfish, violent, jealous adults.  And even if they do learn that it’s not socially acceptable to exhibit those behaviors, that doesn’t mean that those urges aren’t still inside them.  Just like I learned at Kaer Morhen.  I learned not to display my rage towards my instructors, but it was still there.  Always.  So, I don’t believe _at all_ that whatever ‘goodness’ I have in me is my humanity. In fact, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that it’s my _humanity_ that’s the darkness.”

 

“Okay. I’m not necessarily agreeing with you, but if you say your goodness isn’t your humanity then it’s, as you said, something you learned when you were younger.  Someone must have taught you to care for others. Someone must have instilled in you your strong sense of fairness and justice. I’ve heard you speak fondly of a man named Vesemir.  It sounds like you respected him.”

 

“I did and do, but…I’ve thought a lot about this. Vesemir was the kindest instructor I had at Kaer Morhen, but, to be honest, that’s not saying much.  The others were borderline sadists. And even though he mellowed greatly and treated me more as an equal after I completed my training, he was still seriously flawed.  I mean, think about it.  What kind of adult would take a little boy – eight or nine years old - and subject him to the Trial of Grasses – the most excruciatingly painful thing I’ve ever gone through in my life? A process that is so lethal that there’s only a twenty-five percent chance of survival.  What kind of person does that?   And it’s not as if it was done for some altruistic purpose either.  It wasn’t done because I was dying and that was the only way to save my life.  It wasn’t done to save the world from the White Frost.  No, he forced me – and many others - through that hell just so that I could kill monsters - for money.  I went through all that to, essentially, become a rat catcher.  They’re really big and mean rats, yes, but I’m just a rat catcher nonetheless.

 

            “Now, I’ll admit that Vesemir, despite being an incredibly demanding teacher, did also show me kindness. And he tried to teach me to display common courtesy to others.  And he taught me a lot of other valuable lessons – like the benefits of self-discipline and hard work.  But, what he certainly did _not_ teach me was to care for the weak. He did _not_ teach me to stand up for the oppressed.  He definitely didn’t teach me to selflessly sacrifice.  In fact, if he tried to teach me anything, it was to _not_ get involved in _anything_ that didn’t pertain to killing monsters and collecting coin.  I can still hear him in my head. ‘Don’t get involved, Geralt.’

 

            “So, we’re finally back to your question – of why I’m helping you.  I _do_ recognize that I possess a strong sense of fairness, of right and wrong.  I admit that, most of the time, I _do_ care about the weak and the oppressed.  I _do_ want to help those in need. But, I can’t explain where _any_ of that comes from.  I don’t believe that it’s my humanity, that it’s in me naturally. Nor do I believe that it’s anything that I was ever taught. So, my only explanation…is that it’s something _God_ put in me.  Something he placed in me to fight the darkness.  And that’s why I believe that God exists.  

 

            “Now, I don’t know who this god is.  I don’t know anything about him – though I’m pretty confident that he’s not a god of any of the religions that I’ve ever come across. I don’t even know why he would choose to touch my life in any way, and I certainly don’t know what he ultimately wants from me. My hope is that, one day, he will reveal himself and his plans to me.  But, _he’s_ why I can fight the darkness that’s in me. _He’s_ why I defend the weak.  And _he’s_ why I’m helping you.”

 

By that point, Geralt was kneeling again in front of Evie, and she was peering intently at him. 

 

“How long have you had these beliefs?”

 

Geralt looked down and shook his head slightly.

 

“I honestly don’t know. This is actually the first time I’ve ever voiced my thoughts about him or about what I feel inside. But…I think I’ve known for a long time now. I just didn’t recognize it.  Or, maybe I did but just didn’t want to admit it.”

 

“So, what now?”

 

“Now…I guess I’ll just start trying to be more aware of his leading.”

 

“And what is he leading you to do?”

 

The witcher looked deeply into her eyes.  “To help you, however I can.”

 

After saying those words, Geralt noticed a strange look pass across Evie’s face and she lowered her eyes from his. 

 

“What is it? Did I…say something wrong?” he asked.

 

Evie shook her head. “No. Not even close. It’s…me. I…”

 

She lifted her eyes to look at him but quickly looked back down again. Geralt remained quiet, just staring at her, giving her time. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.

 

“Geralt, if you knew where the sword was located, would you want to find it?  Would you want to possess it?” she asked tentatively.

 

The witcher continued to stare at her.  Then, the missing piece of the puzzle regarding her tale of the tome – that piece that had been niggling in his mind - fell into place.

 

“Son of a bitch.  You know.  You know where it is,” he said as he shook his head in disbelief.  

 

He quickly stood and turned away. He suddenly realized that he felt betrayed – hurt that she had kept this from him.  After all he’d done for her, after all the intimate details that he’d shared with her about his life, including his struggles with Ciri’s death, she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him.  And, instantly, anger flooded his mind.  He felt the urge to hurt her back. To make her feel the same pain he was now feeling. 

 

He then closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. _“No, that’s the darkness talking.  You don’t have to listen to it. You care for this woman.  You don’t want to hurt her. You want to protect her.”_

 

When he opened his eyes and turned to face her, he saw tears running down her cheeks, and it dawned on him that not only did he not want to hurt her, he didn’t need to hurt her.  She was punishing herself.  If there was one thing the witcher knew, it was guilt and self-recrimination, and he could clearly see the remorse on her face.

 

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I know I should have told you in the beginning, but I…I don’t know why I held back. I’ve been feeling guilty the last two days about not being upfront about everything, and I’ve wanted to tell you.  I just didn’t know how to bring it up in conversation.  I was afraid you’d be angry that I hadn’t been honest with you.” Evie was speaking fast, voicing her apology without taking a breath.

 

Geralt knelt down in front of her, but she wouldn’t look at him. 

 

“Evie, look at me please.”  When her eyes finally met his, he continued.  “There’s no need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.  I never explicitly asked you if you knew of the sword’s location. So, it’s not like you actually lied to me. And, to be honest, you didn’t truly know me then. A lot has happened between us in the last two days so…I don’t blame you for not trusting me completely with that information.  Hell, at that point, I was keeping things – like Ciri – from you, too. We both had secrets. So, it’s okay.”

 

“So, you forgive me?”

 

Geralt smiled and gave her nod.  “I don’t think that there’s anything to forgive, but yes, I do. That said, I do need to ask now – is there anything else about the sword, the tome, or the prophecy that I should know?”

 

“No.  Not that I can think of.  Well, except for its location.  I don’t know where it is exactly, but the tome did leave some clues. It stated that - ”

 

“Wait,” the witcher interrupted, as he held up his hand. “I…I don’t want to know.”

 

Evie had a look of confusion on her face.

 

“What? But why?”

 

“You asked me if, I knew its location, would I want to posses the sword.   And…I think the answer is ‘no.’ Given the darkness inside of me, given what I know I’m capable of, it’d be best if I never hold that sword. I don’t trust myself with that kind of power. Hell, I don’t trust _anyone_ with that kind of power. You said it yourself – it’s safer if no one ever has it.”

 

Evie simply nodded her head. “Okay…you know, the fact that you _don’t_ want it just makes me trust you even more.” She had a smile on her face.

 

The witcher smirked. “All part of my evil plan.”

 

Her smile grew wider, and she asked, “So, did we just have our first fight?”

 

Geralt suddenly recalled some of the epic rows that he’d had with Yennefer over the years.

 

“Humph.  Hardly. Just two flawed people trying to understand each other better.” And then a gleam came into his eye.  “Though, if it was a fight, then that means we’d need to make up, right?”

 

A flush appeared on Evie’s face. 

 

“Of course,” she said, looking him square in the eyes. “It’s only the right thing to do.”

 

Geralt could almost physically feel the desire radiating off of Evie.  But as he alternated glances between her eyes and her very kissable lips, a war suddenly commenced inside of him, and he began to mentally kick himself.

_‘Why the hell did you just say that?  Why are you even flirting with her?’_

 

A voice was telling him that this would only complicate matters.  It was shouting warnings – warnings that this would end poorly for him, most likely in another heartache. Because what woman in their right mind would actually want to stay with him? 

 

_“Now, where did that thought come from?”_ he asked himself _. “And when did you become so insecure?  In fact, who’s ever even heard of an insecure witcher?  You’ve slept with some of the most beautiful women on the Continent. What the hell is going on?”_  

 

Geralt was suddenly in the middle of a crisis because long-repressed emotions were now coming to the surface.  In the past year, his grief over Ciri’s death had ‘broken’ something loose inside of him. It had broken his stoicism, his ability to simply ignore the distracting feelings within. And now those distracting thoughts – fueled by feelings of insecurity - were flooding his mind at a most inopportune time.

 

Suddenly, Geralt saw himself – or at least one, previously hidden part of himself – very clearly. He understood that for his entire life – even though he had never voiced it to anyone else or even been truly consciously aware of it himself until now, he had felt unlovable.  Why else would his mother – the one person in the world who was supposed to love him more than any other – abandon him to witchers as a child? There must have been something inherently wrong in him, something that she was able to see in him even as a child. He knew, deep down, that he was unworthy of being loved.  It’s why he believed their words when people called him a freak and mutant. They saw it, too.  It was why he had stayed with Yennefer for so long, despite how poorly she routinely treated him. Deep down, he felt that he simply deserved to be treated that way.

 

And on top of the inherent flaw that he obviously possessed, he also had the consequences of the mutations to deal with – specifically his inability to sire children.  He believed that if he had learned anything about women in his century of living, it was that they all had two deep desires – a desire to feel safe and secure and a desire for children.  So, how the hell could he – a sterile witcher with no home and with a life full of danger – ever truly satisfy either of those two desires?  He simply couldn’t. And that’s why – despite his longing for companionship - he rarely let anyone close.  He knew if he let anyone see the real him, they’d see him for the unlovable, fraud of a man that he was and refuse to stay.  And watching them leave, as he had watched Triss leave from the port of Novigrad, just hurt too damn much.  It’s why he typically only sought out relationships that were doomed from the start.  It’s why he ended relationships before they could get too serious. It’s why he spent so much time in brothels.  It’s why he almost exclusively had trysts with sorceresses.  At least with them, his inability to sire children couldn’t disappoint since they, too, were infertile.

 

But, as strong as those deep-rooted feelings were, they were now being drowned out by another desire – his desire to hold the woman in front of him, the desire to connect with another soul in this lonely world, a desire to both tell someone and hear someone say, ‘You matter.’ He simply wanted to feel loved.  And in that moment – as he was looking into Evie’s eyes, that desire won out. 

_“So, stop with the negative thoughts. Stop acting like an angst-filled teenager. She wants this and you want this so just be in the moment and kiss her,”_ he said to himself.

 

Geralt leaned forward, placed his hands on the ground beside her, and softly kissed her lips. The kiss lingered and deepened, and Evie wrapped her arms around him and held him closely.  As a warmth suffused through him, he pulled Evie up into a kneeling position so that their bodies were pressed together.  He then pulled back from the kiss and buried his face into her neck and deeply inhaled the scent of her skin and hair. She still smelled faintly of vanilla. He knew it was from the soap that she used, and he also knew he would forever associate that smell with the woman in his arms. They stayed like that – on their knees in a tight embrace - for several minutes, just holding one another.  Eventually, Evie broke the silence.

 

“My heart is a mess, Geralt.  Please be gentle with it.”  She felt him nod his head.

 

“I will,” he whispered into her ear, and then he asked, “You know that I can’t sire children, right?”

 

“Yes. I know. And I don’t care.”

 

At that, Evie heard Geralt exhale deeply. He, then, moved his head back so that he could look her in the face.  They both saw nothing but tenderness in the other.  She moved her right hand up and gently traced his long facial scar with her middle finger. 

 

“I promise that I’ll try not to hurt you, too. Okay?”

 

“That would be nice.” 

 

He leaned in and kissed Evie again, and as he pulled away he noticed a large smile on her face – a smile that reached up to her eyes. 

 

“I can’t believe that I just met you a week ago.  This has been the craziest week ever,” she said with a laugh.

 

“Welcome to my life,” the witcher said with a smirk.

 

They eventually realized that, as much as they’d like to, they couldn’t stay there in each other’s arms under the shade of the tree all day. As they were moving towards their horses, Geralt turned to Evie and said, “You know, there’s actually a second reason – besides God - why I’m helping you.”

 

“After your first answer, I think I’m afraid to ask.” She raised an eyebrow at the witcher. “So…?”

 

“Anything that will make the Royal Asshole unhappy, then sign me up for it,” he replied with a smirk.

 

“Now that, I believe.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

An arrow flew through the air, and with a loud “thump,” it sunk into the trunk of a tree.

 

            “You’re a natural,” said the witcher, while nodding his head.

 

The fact of the matter was that Evie _wasn’t_ a natural using a crossbow.  She was missing the target almost as much as she was hitting it.  However, given that this was the first time she’d ever used it, she wasn’t completely useless with the weapon, and Geralt knew that he needed to boost her confidence in that moment. 

 

            Due to Evie’s minor panic attack after seeing the basilisk, Geralt had decided to give her a training session with various weapons and potions. At first, she had objected, stating that they didn’t have time for such a thing.

 

            “Evie, first off, you fled with that tome two years ago.  If the Emperor’s men were going to find your grandmother, they’d have found her by now. Us stopping for an hour or two to train will have no bearing on whether we can save her at this point,” Geralt had argued. “Secondly, you were right when you said that you wouldn’t last an hour out here by yourself.  Right now, you are a liability. Now, I’m not going to be able to turn you into a mini-witcher after one session, but you _can_ learn enough skills to perhaps save your life.”

 

After hearing his logical argument, she had reluctantly agreed to his training.  

 

_“I didn’t even have to use Axii on her,”_ he had thought to himself in jest. He had realized, then, that Evie reminded him in some ways of Triss.  Like the redheaded sorceress, even if Evie didn’t agree with his opinion, she at least respected him enough to listen to it.  He both liked and appreciated that about both of them – that they were willing to consider his point of view.

 

Thinking of Triss stung a little, but he clearly understood why she hadn’t given him a second chance. He knew that the sorceress from Maribor loved him, but he had simply hurt her too deeply, and she was just too afraid of him doing it again. Given his history of dealing with women, he didn’t blame her.  He vowed then not to hurt Evie the way he had with Triss.  And Yennefer. And Little Eye. And all the rest.

 

That vow made him realize that something was different with him now. He wasn’t sure that he could even articulate it, but he knew he was different. How he now viewed himself was different. How he viewed relationships and love had mysteriously changed. But, when had it happened? With Ciri’s death? With the death of the troll? With his conversation with Eskel? With meeting Evie? No, it wasn’t due to any of those events, he thought to himself.  The transformation had taken place when he had finally realized that – even though he still didn’t understand why - God had reached down and touched his life. Even though he knew that he didn’t deserve it, he was convinced that God had infused some of his “light” into him. Therefore, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so unlovable after all.  And that small hope was enough. Just as the slightest turn of a crystal could change invisible light into a kaleidoscope of different colors, a slight shift in his perspective had given him a different view on life, love, and himself.  

 

That realization made the witcher smile, though it didn’t last long.  It felt unnatural on his face. Smiling wasn’t something Geralt had ever done much of in his life, and especially not in the last year. In fact, smiling – and feeling joy – made him feel guilty because he thought it a betrayal to Ciri’s memory.  Wasn’t he supposed to still miss her? How could he do that and be in the middle of building a healthy relationship with Evie at the same time? Hell, did he even know what a healthy relationship looked like?  The witcher shook his head, realizing that he was clearly in uncharted ground.

 

             After a short lesson on the two different types of healing potions – witcher versus human - Geralt strapped a knife to Evie’s right thigh. He then showed her not only the best way to hold the weapon but also the most lethal spots to stab an enemy.  He had to make a concerted effort to focus on the task at hand since being so close to her and touching her body was a serious distraction. He had then found several large rocks that were roughly the same size, shape, and weight of his bombs, and they spent a half hour refining and practicing her throwing motion with both hands.  She still had his spare, leather bandolier, and on it, he placed six bombs – two each of Northern Wind, Dancing Star, and Devil’s Puffball. He had explained what each bomb would do.

 

“Just remember – freeze, fire, and poison,” he had told her. 

 

He then had her throw one each of the latter two bombs at a target so that she could experience just what the result would look and feel like upon detonation.  For the last half hour, she had been practicing with Geralt’s spare crossbow.

 

             “Two more and we’re done,” the Wolf told her, as he watched her place the crossbow on the ground in a vertical position, put her foot in the cocking stirrup, and then, with a feminine grunt, pull the string back with all her might until it was locked in place. She had just enough upper-body strength to cock the weapon. She placed an arrow in the flight groove, brought the stock of the weapon up to her shoulder, rested her cheek on the wood, aimed at her target, and as she came to the end of an exhalation, she slowly pulled back on the trigger – all as he’d taught her to do.  Her arrow struck its target again.

 

            “Nice. One more,” he encouraged. 

 

He had told her that once she hit the target five times in a row, then she’d be done.  He carefully watched her technique – including her stance, the position of her hands on the weapon, where she placed the stock on her shoulder, her breathing, and the manner in which she pulled the trigger.  Geralt knew that the old saying, ‘Practice makes perfect’ wasn’t entirely true.  The adage was missing one word.  What truly mattered was that one practiced _properly_ , with the right technique. He knew it was quite easy – due to a lack of self-discipline – to slip into poor technique, which would lead to the formation of bad habits, which would lead to dire consequences.  In most areas of life, failure wasn’t final.  It was simply feedback – feedback that one could, then, use to improve.  But, not so in the witcher profession.  For witchers, failure _was_ final because failure meant death. That had been drilled in his head over and over in his youth. His witcher instructors may have been sons-of-bitches, but they were highly effective teachers.  They never tolerated sloppy technique or half-assed effort.  To give them either was to feel their displeasure. Geralt learned at a very early age that nothing would get his attention like pain.  And the fear of receiving it again in the future was a highly effective motivator.  He may not have particularly cared for his instructors, but he was very careful to obey their instructions.

 

            Despite its effectiveness, however, the witcher realized that instilling pain and fear wasn’t the only motivator. He had learned through his experience with raising and training Ciri that giving support and encouragement was another way to teach and motivate. And depending upon the pupil, it actually could be the better method. He certainly wasn’t going to use fear as a teaching tool with Evie.  Fear she already possessed.  He needed her calm the next time there was danger. And the only way to be calm was to be confident, which came from being prepared.  And that was the whole purpose behind their current training session in the mountains.

 

            As he continued watching Evie practice, Geralt was suddenly reminded of his time training Ciri, and thinking of her made the witcher melancholy.  She had died over a year ago, and not a day had passed in which he hadn’t thought of her, hadn’t thought of the fun and the adventures they could’ve had together on the Path. He even occasionally wondered what it would have been like to be a grandfather, to be able to spoil Ciri’s children. He wondered if he would ever get to the point where he could go a day without her memory passing through his mind. And, then, he suddenly felt guilty - thinking that he shouldn’t want that to ever happen.  He should want to keep her memory alive.  In fact, it was disconcerting that he couldn’t really picture of her face anymore.  Sure, he remembered certain details - that she had ashen hair, green eyes, and scar on her cheek, but when he tried to visualize her face in its entirety, it wasn’t very clear.  It seemed his brain only had the ability to focus on one aspect of her face at a time – her eyes or her mouth or her scar.  He could picture her smile clearly, but the rest of her face would be blurry. He was in the middle of wishing that he had a picture of her when he was disrupted from his thoughts by the sound of an arrow hitting the tree trunk.

 

            Evie lowered the weapon and smiled at the witcher.  

 

“That’s five in a row. I think I’m ready for one of those wolf-head medallions now.”

 

            Geralt looked at her and put a fake smile on his face, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the pain that was behind it.  

 

“Is that so?  Well, I guess that means you can take point from now on.”

 

oOo

 

_Tarsus_

 

            “So, one moment, you’re walking patrol, and then the next, you’re blindfolded, bound, and gagged?  And that is all three of your stories?” 

 

Malek was questioning the three Nilfgaardian soldiers inside of Evie’s cottage. He sat causally in a chair behind her kitchen table, his right leg crossed over his left. The three were standing before him, with the sorceress, Fringilla Vigo, positioned slightly behind him and to his right.

 

            “Ye-Yes, Sir,” stammered Joachim. “He came out of nowhere just like -”

           

            “Yes, yes, just like a wraith.  A gravelly-voiced wraith.  A wraith who warned you from following her.”

 

            All three men nodded.

 

            “Quite the mystery,” he said as he drummed his fingers slowly on his right knee.  “Why would an unknown number of outlaws – four of whom are dead themselves - kill the tavern owner, abduct Miss VanderBosch, and, then, a week later, come back to her cabin to threaten you?”

 

It was obvious that Malek was speaking to himself so the three grunts kept their mouths shut.  

 

            Malek’s eyes shifted back to the men in front of him. “Well, you haven’t been tied up in this cottage the entire time.  Have you discovered anything else while you were here – particularly, anything else out of the ordinary?”

 

            The three swiveled their head to look at each other, shrugging their shoulders.  Finally, Norrie tentatively half-stated, half-asked, “Well, uh, sir, there was…a wyvern and a witcher?”

 

            Ten minutes later, the five were standing before the alderman’s small cottage, Malek knocking with authority on the door.

 

            A young boy – to Malek’s eye the age of nine or ten - slowly opened the door. Upon seeing the intimidating, mountain of a man in front of him, the lad craned his head back, his eyes wide in a look of amazement and fear.  

 

            “Good morning, lad,” said Malek smoothly with a smile on his face.  “We’re here to speak with Alderman Mikelsen.  Your father, I presume. Is he here?”

 

            The youth was too awe-struck to speak.

 

            “Oi!” Norrie shouted, while stepping forward and slapping the boy across the back of the head. “You was asked a question, Nordling.”

 

            Immediately, Norrie’s chin was crushed with a powerful blow.  His head snapped to the right, and he fell to the ground with a thud, knocked unconscious.

 

            Malek stood over the soldier with fire in his eyes, but his voice was cold.         

 

“This boy is a citizen of Lyria, which is now a province of the Nilfgaardian Empire.  As such, he is under Nilfgaardian authority, and he is _protected_ by Nilfgaardian law.  He will be treated as such.”

 

Whether or not he was aware that Norrie was unconscious or whether he was simply speaking for the benefit of the other three, nobody knew and nobody dared to ask.

 

            “My apologies, young man,” stated Malek after bending down on one knee, more eye-level with the terrified boy. “Please forgive his disrespect. Are your parents home?”

 

The boy shook his head but still didn’t speak.

 

Malek raised his head to look up at the sun. 

 

“You know, it sure is hot out here. I’m awfully thirsty.  You wouldn’t, by chance, have something to drink?”

 

            The boy nodded and hesitantly stated, “Me mum made some lemon-water last night.”

 

            “Lemon-water,” repeated Malek with a smile that reached his eyes. “That sounds perfect.”

 

            He then turned to the three still standing behind him, the smile no longer on his face. 

 

“I will question him alone,” he stated before walking into the cabin and shutting the door behind him.  

 

oOo

 

_Blue Mountains_

            Something was terribly wrong. Evie felt the chill deepen throughout her body, and with each step forward that she took, it felt as if the temperature dropped another degree.  She looked around the thick woods on either side of her but couldn’t see Geralt anywhere. As she gripped her crossbow more tightly, she shifted her eyes back to the narrow, dirt road in front of her – the road that led to the front gate of the elven palace grounds.  She couldn’t yet see its gray-colored outer walls due to the dense foliage, but if she looked upward she could make out the red-tiled roof of a watch tower peeking over the canopy of trees so she knew she was getting close. She continued to move forward with tentative steps, and as she came around a slight bend in the road, she stopped and stood in place. 

 

Before her, she saw the thick, metal, outer gates - wide-open and unguarded.  She quickly glanced up to the walled, walkway over the gates but couldn’t detect a soul there, either. Finally, she peered into the palace grounds, her eyes flickering over the hundred-foot long rectangular fountain that ran the length of the grounds up towards the steps and the ornate front entrance of the actual palace.  

 

Evie remembered the last time she had seen the grounds years ago.  The water in the fountain had been a clear, crystal blue and housed numerous brightly colored species of fish.  On pedestals, all along the fountain were shining white, marble statues of famous Aen Seidhe rulers and military leaders of the past.  Near the center of the fountain was the latest sculpture – that of the queen of Dol Blathanna, Enid an Gleanna.  The sculptor had decided to use a pose depicting the queen’s power, with a magical flame rising from her upturned hand.  Her magical prowess was no secret, but what was unknown to most was that Queen Enid was also referred to by a select few as Francesca Findabair, one-time sorceress of the Lodge.  

 

On each side of the fountain there had been carefully manicured gardens - rows upon rows of multicolored flowers and trees, with bees zooming and butterflies flittering about. At the east end of the palace grounds rested an impressive, three-story-tall, royal palace that, to Evie’s eyes, looked as if it could hold at least a hundred rooms. On each “corner” of the castle was a tower that rose one to two stories higher than the rest of the royal residence. With the doors and many of the windows open and several elves moving easily in and out of the palace, the building, with its cream-colored walls and red-tiled roof, had looked like it’d been copied out of one of her fairy tales from youth. It had certainly not been an intimidating or foreboding castle. She recalled hearing lots of conversation and laughter from the elves moving about the grounds.  That sunny, spring day, with her grandmother, she had experienced sensory overload from the sights, sounds and smells while strolling through the palace garden on well-tended, walking paths covered in crushed white and pink sea shells.  But, now, it was all different.

            The vibrant brightness was gone, replaced by a complete and utter dullness. The palace grounds appeared empty – of both elves and any other fauna, and though she was still quite a distance away, the fountain water looked to be a dark, blackish-green.  The few flowers that she could see appeared wilted and dead, the trees were missing their leaves, and there seemed to be a thick mist overhanging the entire palace grounds. To Evie, the fog didn’t appear or feel natural.  She wondered if she had suddenly lost the ability to see colors, for it seemed that everything was a shade of gray. But, the overwhelming dreariness that she was experiencing wasn’t just a dullness of her physical senses.  Even though she couldn’t explain why or how, she could feel a touch of despair down in her soul.

 

            “I don’t sense anyone,” Geralt whispered next to her, making her jump.

 

            “Holy hell, Geralt! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she whispered back in a startled state.

 

            “Sorry,” replied the witcher as his eyes scanned in detail the interior of the palace grounds. To Evie, he didn’t sound sorry, but, frankly, she was just glad that he had finally returned.

 

            Ten minutes earlier, as they had made their way toward the elven palace located in the Blue Mountains east of the Dol Blathanna valley below, Geralt had suddenly raised his fist and pulled back on Roach’s reins. The witcher had remained still for over a minute before finally dismounting his horse and motioning for Evie to do the same.

 

            He moved over to her side and said, “My medallion isn’t twitching, but something’s awry.  I can feel it.”

 

            “What is it? I don’t feel anything.”

 

            The witcher just shook his head, his eyes searching the woods.

 

            “Can you see the towers of the palace?” he asked, pointing at them over the tree tops.

 

            Evie nodded.  They were partially obscured by a low, dark cloud, but she could just make them out.

 

            “Okay. Then, walk in that direction.”

 

            “What are you going to be doing?” she asked nervously.

 

            “Watching.” 

 

            “For what?”

 

            “For anything watching you.”

 

After a pause, he stated, “If I yell at you to run, ride fast.”  And then he disappeared into the woods.

 

            “Swell, Witcher. Just swell.”

 

            A short time later, both Roach and her mount, sensing something disturbing, became very skittish, and it wasn’t long after that that no amount of coaxing on her part could get them to move forward another step.  At that point, she loosely tied their reins around the limb of a small tree and continued her journey alone until she was standing with the witcher in front of the open gates of the palace grounds.

 

“The place looks deserted. Was there a battle here?” she asked.

 

            The witcher didn’t answer, just continued looking around.  Finally, he asked, “Which way to your grandmother’s home?”

 

            At one point, Evie’s grandmother, like the other “common” elves, had lived in huts, caves, or up in the trees outside of the royal palace grounds.  However, as the overall population of the Aen Seidhe in Dol Blathanna continued to dwindle, Queen Enid decreed that all the elves move inside the palace walls for safety and security.  The last time Evie had visited her grandmother – five years ago – she had been living in a small hut on the north side of the palace grounds.  Near the armory, there had been living quarters for Aen Seidhe militia, but after virtually all of them had left for the war front to take part in the guerilla maneuvers of the Scoia’tael, their quarters were taken over by those left behind.

 

            “Over there, through that archway that leads to the armory,” she said as she pointed to her left.

 

            The White Wolf then turned to face Evie. “If I asked you to stay here and to let me check out her place by myself, you wouldn’t listen, would you?”

 

            Evie stared hard into his eyes. “It depends. On why you’d want me to.”

 

            “Evie, I’m not sure exactly what, yet, but there’s something very dangerous here.”

 

            She shook her head and smiled ruefully.  “That’s why I’m here, right?  To keep her out of danger. Or, to help her out, if she’s already in it.”

 

            The witcher looked into her eyes for a moment. “Okay. Stay behind me and walk exactly where I walk. Got it?”

 

            Evie swallowed and nodded. The witcher then reached into a small pouch attached to his bandolier and pulled out two potions.  He gulped down the witcher elixirs, and as she was standing right next to him, she could hear him hiss through his teeth as he inhaled deeply.  She looked closely at him and noticed the veins in his face and neck darken and become much more pronounced. He then quickly unsheathed his silver sword and moved forward.

 

As she stepped across the threshold of the palace gate and placed her foot onto the interior of the palace ground, she audibly exhaled as the temperature around her plunged.  It felt as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice-cold water over her, and the slight feeling of despair that she’d previously sensed down in her soul began to spread.

 

            “Geralt,” she half whispered, half whimpered.

 

            “I know. Just stay right behind me.”

 

             As if the drastic change in the appearance of the palace grounds wasn’t enough to cause concern, what also struck Evie was the silence.  There was no sound of fish swimming in the fountain or birds chirping in fruit trees that dotted the palace grounds. In fact, there no sound at all, not even the wind. She couldn’t hear anything but her own heartbeat and the crunch of dried, dead grass below her feet. 

 

They’d only walked twenty paces when the witcher spotted a corpse. It was lying face-up, halfway between the archway of the armory and the entrance to the palace grounds.  Geralt walked slowly towards it but stopped about ten feet away.   

 

            “Stay right here,” he whispered to Evie.

 

He walked in a circle around the corpse, not even bothering to look at the body.  His focus was on the ground, his eyes taking in every detail. After completing his investigation of the ground, he approached the corpse, stopped a few feet away, and then crouched down for a closer inspection.  The body belonged to a male elf. That much was clear from the ears and facial structure.  Its mouth was open, caught in frozen, ghastly scream.

 

The witcher went through a very quick, superficial autopsy – checking the various parts of its head, neck, and hands. He pulled his knife and cut open the elf’s shirt and, then, inspected its exposed chest and abdomen. He scanned the trouser legs and, then, reached down and removed the elf’s boots, examining his feet.  Next, the witcher rolled the body over to inspect its back, even lifting its shirt up to view the skin. Finally, he moved back up to the elf’s neck, and using his knife, the witcher made a deep cut across the carotid artery. He stayed in that position for a moment peering at the elf’s neck. To Evie, he looked lost in thought. 

 

Eventually, Geralt stood, looked up at the mist-covered sky, and then around at the palace grounds, spotted here and there with the strange fog. Though it was mid-afternoon, not a ray of sunlight was peeking through the mist.

 

            “What happened?  How did he die?” remarked Evie in a soft voice.

 

            “Feels frozen,” he whispered back.

 

            “What? How’s that? It’s cold, but not even close to freezing?”

 

            The witcher just shook his head and, then, stood and walked towards the archway, with Evie right on his heels.  She pointed Geralt towards her grandmother’s hut, but a quick inspection revealed nothing of consequence until they reached her small bedroom.  Evie inhaled quickly.

 

            “Her bed’s unmade,” she stated quietly.

 

            “And?” replied the witcher with a look her way.

 

            “She always made her bed. Always. In fact, everything always had to be in its proper place.  Always tidy. She’s a little obsessed, that way.”

 

            The witcher looked at Evie but didn’t say anything.  He didn’t want to alarm her any more than she already was so he didn’t say a word about his suspicions. But, he didn’t have say anything.  Evie knew, too.

 

            “Where to next?” she asked.

 

             “You know where,” he answered.

 

            “The palace.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

            The witcher nodded.  “This chill is getting stronger the closer we get to it.”

 

            Before heading to the palace, they entered and inspected the other huts lined in a row.  Their quick investigation revealed two more corpses in an identical state to the previous one, but neither were Evie’s grandmother. They made their way out into the palace grounds again, and as they approached the marble steps of the palace, Evie could feel the ominous weight pressing in on her even more.  She looked to her right and down into the fountain to see the once-beautiful orange and red and purple fish now floating in the murky water.

 

Geralt reached the top of the portico and, then, stopped several paces away from the twelve-foot high, silver and glass front doors of the palace.  The door on the left was partially open. On either side of the doors were several, larger-than-life statues of Aen Seidhe warriors, with either swords or bows in hand.  The witcher crouched down and stared at the marble floor and then towards the doors.    

 

            “Do you see anything?” Evie whispered.

 

            The witcher shook his head. “No blood, but…there’s something suspicious. I just don’t know what it is.” 

 

He then peered for a long time through the open doorway and into the interior of the palace.  It was pitch-black, and there was not a sound coming from within.  Finally, the White Wolf stood and spoke.

 

“Evie, I think you should stay here.”

 

She shook her head resolutely. “Geralt, I came here to make sure my grandmother was safe.  And that’s what I intend to do.  While I am _very_ grateful to you – for everything that you’ve done for me - I didn’t ask you to accompany me.  That was your decision. You can’t ask me to sit back and let you take all the risks simply because there’s danger. Heck, this entire journey has been nothing but danger.”

 

The witcher slowly exhaled. “Evie, I understand.  I know I don’t have the right to tell you to do anything.  And if I thought your grandmother was in this palace, _alive_ , I wouldn’t even suggest that you stay. But…and I could be wrong, but if any elves are in there, they’re dead.  So, your grandmother is either in there and dead, which means you can’t save her, or she’s alive and somewhere out there.” At that, he nodded his head toward the mountains. “But, either way, that means you’ve got no business going in.”

 

After a moment, Evie responded. “Okay, let’s say that you’re right.  Then, that means you’ve got no business going in either.”

 

Suddenly, the witcher’s brow furrowed, and he, then, nodded his head several times. 

 

“You know what - you’re right.  I got caught up in the moment for a second, thinking I was on the job. But, I’m not, so you’re right.  I’ve got no business going in there, either.  So... let’s get out of here.” 

 

With that, he turned and began walking towards the outer gates.  Geralt was down the steps and into the gardens when he realized that he couldn’t hear Evie behind him. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself as he stopped walking. Then, he turned around.  As he suspected, Evie hadn’t moved and was still standing on the palace portico.

 

He walked back up to her.

 

“I have to know,” she stated simply.

 

“You’re not being rational,” growled the witcher. “Let’s check out the forests - see if there are any survivors out there, first. Maybe she’s out there, alive. At the very least, there might be someone who can give us a clue as to what’s going on in here. Right now, I have no idea what it is we’re dealing with.”

 

“And what if she’s inside, alive, but she dies while we’re in the woods?”

 

“Evie -”

 

“If you even thought that there was the _smallest_ chance of Ciri being in there alive, you’d go.”

             

            The witcher stared into Evie’s eyes for five long seconds.  She never broke eye-contact, and he finally gave a small nod.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and then he turned and marched his way down the steps and over to the armory.  He grabbed an unlit torch from a wall sconce and, then, returned to Evie, giving her the torch.

 

            “Stay behind me. Do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. And I’m about to take a shot of Cat, so keep that torch behind me and out of my eyes.  Deal?”

 

            After receiving a nod of confirmation from Evie, Geralt drank the vision-enhancing potion and, then, reached over and lit the torch in her hand. Suddenly, she felt a smallest fraction better, as if the flame had somehow warmed the ice-cold sense of despair that was within.  But, the relief didn’t last long. As they stepped through the open door and into the castle, the temperature dropped again.  So much that they could now see their breath as they exhaled. Evie began to shiver since she was not dressed appropriately for that environment, and she was also suddenly awash with feelings of hopelessness. She had no idea how they were going to be able to search every room in the palace.  It would take them all night.  And, then, the thought of spending the night in the ominous castle made her want to flee.  She instinctively took a step closer to Geralt, who was standing still in the middle of the main foyer.

 

            The witcher stood motionless, using his senses to gather feedback from the surroundings.  The entry hallway had no second or third story rooms immediately above it, and Geralt observed that there were stairs on either side of the foyer that led to the second-floor landing and, then, on to the third floor.  He slowly crept forward, his medallion not yet vibrating.  He couldn’t see or hear anything worrisome, but as he took a few steps more into the interior of the palace, his nose picked up something familiar.  The stench of a burned body was unmistakable.  Having no other clue, the witcher began to follow the odor. He headed up the stairs to the left with Evie right behind him.

 

            At the top of the second-floor landing, Geralt stopped as he noticed a body on the floor.  He bent down to inspect it, but the corpse wasn’t the source of the smell.  It wasn’t charred at all.  It looked identical to the initial corpse found on the palace grounds. The witcher stood and breathed in deeply, and then he began walking up to the third floor, taking the stairs one at a time. He didn’t look behind him to check on Evie, but he didn’t need to. He could sense the lit torch right behind him, and he could also clearly hear her incredibly rapid heart rate and breathing. 

 

            Evie was doing her best to follow Geralt’s instructions.  She held the torch down to her side and slightly behind her.  She, in no way, wanted to hinder the witcher’s abilities.  However, in holding the torch in this manner, she was virtually blind.  The only real way that she could see anything in the dark palace was if she turned her body and walked sideways so that she could view what was behind them.  That actually did make her feel a little safer, knowing that nothing was coming up on her rear. However, that meant that she had no idea what was ahead. She began to think the witcher had been right.  She had no business going in there. 

 

            As they reached the third floor, the odor of burned flesh intensified. Geralt paused and peered down a long corridor to where he thought the smell was originating.

 

            “What is it? Why have we stopped?” whispered Evie, her left hand grasping the witcher’s scabbard.

 

            The White Wolf didn’t say anything. He just pointed forward with his left hand, which was a little pointless as Evie couldn’t see anything in front of them.  At the end of the hall was a door, just slightly ajar. He could detect the faintest glimmer of light coming from behind the door, as if there were flickering candles in the mystery room.

 

As they walked down the corridor, Evie noticed that they were maneuvering in a bit of a zig-zag pattern, as if the witcher was drunk.  She was about to ask what was going on when she looked down and saw that he was leading her through a maze of corpses littering the stone floor.

 

With each step closer to the end of the hallway, the witcher began to detect slight sounds emanating from behind the door, but he couldn’t discern the source or what they might signify. Finally, a few paces from the door itself, his medallion vibrated lightly – indicating magic, danger, or both.  He took two more steps forward, paused, and, then, cautiously reached forward with the sword in his right hand. He used the tip of the blade to gently and slowly push the door open – unfortunately, with an ominous creaking noise, making the witcher wince.

 

            “What the…?” Evie heard Geralt whisper to himself, as they stood in the threshold of the doorway, the historian peeking around the witcher’s back.

 

On the floor were several, clearly burnt bodies, but that wasn’t what caught Evie’s attention the most.  The long room looked like some sort of lab, with rows and rows of tables. Sitting on top of the tables, were – what looked to Evie – countless round aquariums, perhaps twenty gallons in size each. There were all kinds of tubes coming out of each aquarium leading to other working contraptions.  The source of light was originating from the aquariums themselves.  They were filled with an eerily glowing, viscous, pink-tinted liquid.  There were objects floating within the liquid, but Evie couldn’t immediately discern what they were.  She squinted her eyes, and upon recognizing them, she gasped.   

 

            Suddenly, the witcher’s medallion began twitching violently, while at the same time a floating ball of fire and light – about the size of a human head - instantly appeared in the middle of the lab. 

 

            “Evie, run,” stated the monster-slayer calmly.

 

            “What?” she stammered, too in shock by everything that she was seeing.

 

            Suddenly, the ball of fire let loose with a hideous scream, the sound reverberating off the walls.

 

            “Ruuuuun!” he yelled.

 

            Geralt immediately cast an enhanced Quen shield, surrounding himself and Evie with a dome of protection, just moments before multiple, fiery projectiles exploded against it.   The witcher reached forward, grabbed the door handle with his left hand, and slammed it shut as he jumped backwards out of the lab.  He immediately cast an Yrden Sign on the floor, hoping to trap or, at least, slow down the hostile monster if it chose to pursue. 

He then turned and sprinted after Evie.

 

            As he raced down the corridor, he heard another soul-piercing scream from behind him as the ball of fire materialized on Geralt’s side of the door.  The witcher grabbed a Northern Wind bomb off of his bandolier, and as his left foot hit the floor, he both jumped forward and twisted his body to his left.  As he was in the air, facing the lab, he threw the bomb at the fiery ball, and then continued twisting his body so that when he landed, he was facing forward again and continued sprinting toward the stairs.  He heard the bomb detonate but didn’t bother looking behind him to see if it’d actually hit his target.  As he got to the third-floor landing right by the stairs, he paused to check on his pursuer.  Suddenly, the monster stopped half-way down the hallway.  Geralt activated another Quen dome an instant before three more fiery projectiles would have incinerated him.  For a moment, his vision was filled with a torrent of flames spreading out around him, coating his protective bubble.  After a moment, the flames disappeared and, he heard the monster scream a third time – but to the witcher, it sounded as if it was now facing in the opposite direction - before it moved quickly back towards the lab.  He didn’t bother following it.  His priority was making sure Evie was safe.

 

            The witcher ran down the stairs and caught up with Evie before she had reached the first floor.  As he was running past her, he scooped her up easily in his left arm and tossed her over his shoulder, never losing stride in the process.  He sprinted all the way through the palace grounds, out the main gate, into the woods, and to where their horses were tied up before finally stopping and putting Evie down.

 

            While Geralt was breathing slightly more heavily than normal, Evie was gasping for breath.

 

            “What the hell _was_ that?” she asked between taking in large gulps of air.

 

            “To be honest, I’m not real sure, but maybe they’ll tell us.”

 

            “What? Who’s ‘they?’” she questioned in a confused tone.

 

            “The Aen Seidhe.” Then, talking much louder, he said, “Come on out.  I know you’re there.”

 

            Then, to Evie’s eyes, it seemed that a dozen or more elves, with weapons drawn, magically appeared, stepping out of the darkening shadows of the forest trees.

 

            “On your knees, dh’oine,” snarled an elf, aiming his bow at the witcher’s head.

 

            For several seconds, no one said or did anything – just waiting to see the monster-slayer’s response.

 

            Finally, the silence was broken. “Oh, please, Duirevel. Lower your bow.” came the voice of another elf.

 

Evie’s eyes scanned the elves around her, but she couldn’t figure out who had spoken.

 

“We have a celebrity in our midst. Don’t you recognize the famous Geralt of Rivia? He’ll kneel for no one. Not even for kings and queens. Right, Gwynbleidd?” asked the voice in a slightly mocking tone. 

 

Then, an elf stepped forward, and Evie could see that he wore a crimson bandana on his head – a bandana that also covered the upper, right half of his face, including the eye. There was just enough ambient light left for Evie to see that he had multiple scars marring his lower right cheek, jaw line, and the corner of his mouth.  Then, the elf smiled, his scars making it look gruesome.

 

            “I’ve always given royalty _all_ the honor I believe they deserve,” retorted the White Wolf.

 

            “Ha! Says the man known as the ‘King-slayer,’” responded the elf with mirth.

 

            Evie’s head turned to look at Geralt.

 

            “Hey, I’ve never been convicted of regicide.”

 

            The elf laughed.  “That’s something only the guilty would say.”

 

            “You would know, Iorveth.  You would know,” stated the witcher and, then, he stepped forward and shook the elf’s hand.

 

oOo

 

_Vizima_

 

            “Are you sure it was Geralt?” asked Yennefer.

 

            “Clearly, it was him,” answered Fringilla.  “As I said, I spoke to two different men. They both described the witcher exactly the same – white hair, cat eyes, scar over his brow and down his left cheek, wolf head medallion. Who _else_ could it be?”

 

            “Okay. So, maybe he _was_ in Tarsus, but we don’t know that it’s him who’s involved with this barmaid. Nobody actually saw them together.”

 

            “Oh, please.  Who else – with a ‘gravelly voice’ – could single-handedly subdue three Nilfgaardian soldiers? Who else could wipe out the four thieves in a bar like they were nothing more than bothersome gnats?”

 

            “Ladies,” interrupted Philippa Eilhart. “While I have no doubt that the two of you are _quite_ fascinated with this particular aspect of the mystery, we have greater questions that must be answered.”

 

Upon arriving back in Vizima, Fringilla had asked Malek what the next course of action would be regarding the professor.

 

“You will do nothing,” he had replied, his eyes piercing into those of the sorceress.  “If, and when, your services are needed again, you will be informed.”

 

Less than an hour later, Fringilla had contacted her two fellow sorceresses to share the details of her excursion with Malek. The three practitioners of magic didn’t know much about Malek, but considering the Emperor had made it clear to them that he had free access to their special powers at any time, they knew well the important role that he played.  “Consider an order from Malek to be an order from me,” had been the Emperor’s decree to the sorceresses. Obviously, the man wasn’t just some errand boy.  He would not be sent to track down someone who’d committed any ordinary act of treason.  The sorceresses knew that a quarter of the empire could, conveniently, be accused of that.  Heck, they themselves, at differing points in time, had been accused of that charge. So, the question was – just what did Malek and, by extension, the Emperor want with the one-time history professor turned waitress.

 

“The writing is clearly on the wall for our dear Emperor,” continued Philippa.  “Unless something changes soon, I don’t believe that any of us foresee Emhyr holding his position much longer.  And the man is _not_ stupid.  He must know it as well.  Thus, I have to believe that he would be doing everything in his power to retain his power.  Therefore, this woman must be of great importance.”

 

“Yes, we already know all that, Philippa,” remarked Yennefer.  “So, what are these _greater_ questions?”

 

“ _Why_ is she important? And _if_ she is so important, why is it that, apparently, only five people – Emhyr, Malek, and, now, the three of us – know that she is? She must have knowledge of or access to something that could turn the tide of this war. And _if_ she has the ability – direct or otherwise – to change Emhyr’s fate, then why hasn’t he shared that with us?  Why the secret? What’s he hiding? He _should_ have every person at his disposal searching for her.”

 

The other two sorceresses nodded their heads in understanding and agreement.

 

“I think it’s high-time that we found out just who this mystery woman is.  And I just happen to know of _someone_ who has a strong connection to a white-haired witcher who, more than likely, but for unknown reasons, is traveling with her.  How serendipitous,” finished Philippa with a smile.

 

Though she couldn’t see Philippa’s eyes, Yennefer knew she was staring at her.  Fringilla, after hearing Philippa’s words, stared at Yennefer for a moment, too. And then she quickly averted her eyes, looking down at her hands resting her lap, hidden below the table.  Hands that were grasped together very tightly.


	9. Chapter 9

_Blue Mountains, east of Dol Blathanna_

 

            Though his face retained its normal appearance of stoicism, the witcher was surprised.  He had just stepped into the entrance of a medium-sized, dank cavern, and as he looked around, he could see two or, at most, three dozen elves.  Was this all that was left of the Aen Seidhe, he thought?  Surely not.  Surely, there were hundreds of other elves congregating in various other communities in the mountains. Surely, there were dozens and dozens of other scouts and warriors roaming the woods, on the lookout for invaders to their domain.  But if not…if this was all that was left…then, he felt pity. 

 

He’d always felt a certain kinship with the Aen Seidhe.  Though, he didn’t really know why for he didn’t particularly like them. They, in truth, could be quite difficult to like. In general, they were incredibly arrogant, believing themselves to be vastly superior to the human race - superior to every race, actually. They held as much prejudice towards humans as humans held towards them.  And for some of them – like Iorveth - their prejudice was violent, bloody, and unmerciful.  In many ways, their arrogance reminded Geralt of the Lodge of Sorceresses, almost every member of the royal and noble classes, Nilfgaardians, and the Aen Elle elves - all groups for which he held a deep disdain.  So, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t lump the Aen Seidhe in with them, as well.  He assumed it was because, during his lifetime, the Aen Seidhe had always been the outsiders, the ostracized.  And while the former groups were in positions of power and always willing to do anything to attain more, in his experience, the Aen Seidhe were simply trying to survive.  They just wanted a nation that they could call their own and to be left alone.  And the witcher couldn’t blame them.  He’d seen first-hand how the ones who’d decided to compromise and tried to assimilate into human society had fared.  Pogroms, burnings, beatings, systematic persecution…but, then, his thoughts were interrupted.

 

            “This way, Vatt’ghern,” instructed Iorveth.

 

            After their greeting in the forest, the elven commander had inquired as to why Geralt was mucking about in Aen Seidhe land.  At that point, the witcher introduced Evie and explained that they were looking for her grandmother.  Upon the revelation that Evie’s veins carried Aen Seidhe blood, she could sense dozens of elven eyes, appraising and scrutinizing, shifting her way.  Now that they knew she was a “mutt” – as she’d been called many times - she wasn’t sure if they now felt more or less contempt for her. But that was something she’d gotten used to over the years. After asking for the grandmother’s name, Iorveth nodded his head, instructed his men to maintain their patrol in the woods, and then escorted Geralt and Evie alone higher up into the mountains. There had been virtually no discussion throughout the fifteen-minute walk, during which time the sun had begun to set.  Geralt, at the beginning of the short journey, had asked Iorveth a question about what he’d been up to for the last two years, but the elf’s eyes had shifted quickly over to Evie, before looking back at Geralt and responding with a curt, “Later.” Geralt understood.  While he had somewhat earned Iorveth’s trust through their temporary and unlikely alliance during his time in Flotsam and Vergen two summers ago, he knew that Evie still hadn’t. 

           

            Evie, now standing in the entrance of the cavern, was, for the first time in the last several hours, feeling hopeful.  The fact that this elf hadn’t immediately informed her that her grandmother was dead made her believe that she just might actually be alive.  As she followed Iorveth and Geralt through the cavern, she took in her surroundings. She noticed three very thick, rock columns spotted here and there within the cave. These columns had very thick bases, narrowed a bit as they got higher, but then gradually thickened again as they connected to the ceiling of the cave.  She looked up and to her right to see that the column nearest the entrance wasn’t actually connected to the ceiling at all. 

 

She also noticed that there were four to five, small campsites set up throughout the relatively large cave.  Each campsite was really nothing more than a small fire surrounded by a handful of elves of differing age and gender. But, she didn’t see any tents, crates, or barrels of supplies that were typically associated with a campsite. As much as she was feeling hopeful, when she looked into the faces of the elves, she saw the exact opposite.  Through her dozen or more visits to her “Nain” over the years, she had come to learn that the Aen Seidhe were a proud race. A race who believed that they were unique and special.  She had always sensed an indomitable spirit within them.  But, now as she looked at them, sitting with shoulders hunched and speaking in whispers, to her, they looked broken.  In her travels, she had once come across a camp of refugees - people who had been forced to flee their war-ravaged land with nothing but what they could carry and wear. Folks who had lost their loved ones, their homes, their sense of identity. Looking at these elves reminded her of them.  She couldn’t see the typical “fire” in their eyes or the determined set of their jaws. They looked, for lack of a better word, resigned to their lot. It was startling for her to see.  

           

            Evie looked up just in time to see that Iorveth and Geralt had stopped in front of her.

 

            “You have guests, Lydial,” announced Iorveth loudly, before facing Geralt.  “I’ll return shortly. I’m sure that an audience will be requested.” 

 

He then turned and walked towards a group of elves near the back of the cavern. While Geralt’s eyes followed the retreating elf towards his destination, he heard two simultaneous shouts - shouts that were half-queries, half-exclamation.

 

            “Evangeline?” “Angel?” came two voices behind him.

 

            The witcher turned and watched as two figures rose from their seated position around the fire and rushed toward Evie. They embraced her in a long hug, during which Geralt eyed them closely.  Despite Lydial looking only five to ten years older than Evie, the witcher knew that she was probably, in fact, around his age.  Even though the expected life-span of an elf seemed to diminish with each passing generation, they were still capable of living two or three centuries.  She was quite tall, about the same height as Geralt, himself. She had reddish-brown hair that she wore in the traditional Aen Seidhe style – long and flowing with a thin braid originating at each temple and hanging down past the jawline. Geralt could see pure joy radiating from her face as she hugged her granddaughter. 

 

The male’s clothing and hair style were elven, but his facial features made it clear that he was human.  He was the tallest of the three, with hair color almost identical to Evie’s. He, too, seemed to be very pleased to see Evie, which, to Geralt’s surprise, caused a weird surge of emotion to well up from within the witcher. He had the sudden desire to step in between them to end their hug.

 

            “Barcain? What…what are you doing here?”

 

Geralt heard Evie ask in a shocked tone while still in the middle of the three-way embrace.  Hearing the name, the witcher was confused, too.  From previous conversations, he knew Barcain to be one of Evie’s older brothers.  But, if he remembered correctly, Barcain was a career soldier in the Nilfgaardian military.  He could have sworn that it was the other brother, Abelard, who’d had close ties to the Aen Seidhe.  

 

            Instead of answering, though, Barcain stepped out of the embrace and nodded towards the witcher. “Who’s your friend, Angel?”

 

            Geralt raised an eyebrow at Evie. “Angel?”

 

            She shrugged her shoulders but had a small, somewhat embarrassed smile on her face.

 

“Only this guy – and my other brother - call me that. My entire life, everyone’s called me Evangeline. It’s why I chose to go by Evie when…” And then she paused, looking at the other two. “Angel is just a shortened version of my name. That’s all.”

 

            “Oh, no, no, no,” interjected Barcain with a laugh, looking at Evie with a mischievous smile on his face. And, then he turned to Geralt.  “It’s because she was the _perfect_ little child.  She could do no wrong.  Always trying to please. ‘Yes, Mama. Yes, Papa. How else can I help?’  She was quite adorable…and irritating.” Evie lightly slapped him on the shoulder.

 

Barcain laughed with Evie and, then, stepped forward and extended his hand. “Barcain VanderBosch.”

 

            “Geralt of Rivia.”

 

            “It’s a pleasure, friend,” responded Barcain with a smile as he shook the witcher’s hand.

 

            For the next several minutes, the four of them sat around the small campfire. In accord with Aen Seidhe customs regarding hospitality, Lydial busied herself with brewing some tea and pulling from her meager supplies some spiced flat bread for her guests. There was much animated discussion and laughter among the group, but Geralt really wasn’t paying attention to the conversation.  He was focused on Iorveth and the other three elves with whom he was speaking.  They were situated towards the very back of the cavern. He could easily ascertain from the looks on their faces that their discussion was not nearly as light-hearted and jovial.  Suddenly, at the same time, the other three elves’ heads all turned in the witcher’s direction.  One of the elves – with long white hair – gazed at him with an obvious look of scorn.  Geralt didn’t recognize him or the other male elf, but he easily remembered the female elf in the middle.

 

He’d first seen Francesca Findabair at a mages’ ball on the Isle of Thanedd many years ago.  With her golden hair, azure eyes, and flawless figure, her beauty had been startling then, and it was impossible to mistake who she was now. He and the sorceress-queen made eye contact from across the cavern for several seconds. She eventually turned her attention back to the intense-looking conversation around her. 

 

The White Wolf looked briefly at Lydial and Barcain and, then, he began to stare at Evie. His eyes moved quickly over to the four elves at the back of the cave and then back to Evie again. As he took in the profile of her face, he thought about what the two of them had just encountered in the elven palace grounds.  He thought about what they’d witnessed in the third-floor lab, and he was starting to get a very bad feeling about being there. It was a fallacy that the witcher “brought” trouble with him wherever he went.  The truth was that the world was already full of trouble, and, typically, more times than not, whatever trouble people had, they had brought it on themselves.  That said, as he was viewed as someone who made trouble go away, he was inevitably brought into it.  And most times, the witcher didn’t mind.  That’s how he made his living, after all.  But, what he did mind was when his friends were brought into the fray through no fault of their own and no _choice_ of their own.  Being the witcher’s friend, he knew, deserved hazard-duty pay - as Dandelion, Milva, Regis, Zoltan, and a few other of his friends could attest. He didn’t want Evie to have find out that unfortunate fact, as well. She was in enough danger from the Nilfgaardians, as is.  

 

            Suddenly, the witcher quickly stood.  The three around him immediately stopped their conversation and looked up at Geralt.

 

“Sorry.  Gotta check on the horses.  I’ll be right back.” He looked at Evie for a moment longer before turning and heading toward the cavern exit.

 

“You know, Angel, your companion is not the most sociable fellow,” stated Barcain with a smirk.

 

“Yes. He is a bit of an acquired taste,” she responded with a smile as she watched him walk away.

 

Geralt calmly and slowly navigated around the various campfires, ignoring the stares from the Aen Seidhe sitting on the cavern floor below him.  He exited the cave and headed over to Roach, whose reins had previously been thrown around a low fork in a nearby tree.  He quickly uncoiled the reins and grabbed the top of the saddle, preparing to place his foot in the stirrup. But, he didn’t.  He simply stood there, motionless, by her side.

 

_“What am I still doing here?”_ he thought to himself.  He’d helped Evie find her grandmother. It was now time to move on down the Path because the job was complete. Then, he corrected himself.  Hell, he wasn’t even on a job. Evie hadn’t paid him for this.  He was only helping her because…well, he didn’t even really know why.  For some reason, he just felt…drawn to her, responsible for her. He shook his head slightly at that, a look of confusion on his face. He didn’t understand that at all. Regardless, he knew that the smartest and safest action for Evie was for him to move on. Evie had met up with her family.  She could now warn them of any potential danger from the Nilfgaardians, and, then, she – and possibly they - could go back into hiding in some remote town north of the Pontar River, well away from Nilfgaardian presence.

 

The witcher remembered what he’d promised himself the previous day – that he wouldn’t hurt her. But, this was different.  He wasn’t leaving her out of insecurity and cowardice – out of fear for himself – as was his habit in the past.  He was leaving her out of fear for her.  He knew that if she stayed in his life, then she would die – eventually – because of him.  And, at that thought, Ciri’s face flashed in his mind, and he felt a stab of pain in his chest. 

 

The selfish part of him didn’t want to leave.  He was really starting to care for the woman; though, frankly, that scared him to death. But, he was willing to leave as a sacrifice for her.  And since it was a sacrifice, didn’t that make leaving okay?  He nodded his head at his logic, but he still didn’t put his foot in the stirrup. He continued to stand by Roach’s side, motionless for…he didn’t know how long. Eventually, he bowed his head and sighed deeply as he realized two things – one, he _wasn’t_ going to leave, and two, he _would be_ going back into that elven palace.  And he knew that he’d do it willingly, without protest, because he’d be damned if he’d let them use her. If they even hinted at harming her as a means of coercion, then blood would run. He raised his head as he picked up the sound of footsteps behind him. Then, he caught the faintest scent of vanilla, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

 

“Is everything okay?” he eventually heard Evie ask softly.

 

Geralt turned around, and his eyes slowly took in her face, every detail.  He couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t think that she’d ever looked more beautiful.  He knew that, objectively speaking, Evie’s looks paled in comparison to Francesca’s – and to those of every other sorceress for that matter.  But to him, there was no contest. She was like no other woman he’d ever met.  Evie possessed warmth, compassion, vulnerability, integrity, wisdom, humor, bravery, and…a refreshing genuineness. Whatever flaws she had, whatever assets she had, he knew that he was seeing the real her. There was no deception. No guile. No cover-up. There was just her. Just Evie. He reached up with his left hand, removed the glove from his right, and tucked it into his belt.  He, then, did the same with his left. But, his eyes never left her the entire time.

 

“Evie,” the witcher stated simply, barely above a whisper.

 

When he didn’t continue, a small furrow came to her brow and a tentative smile appeared on her face.

 

“Yes…Geralt,” she replied back with uncertainty.  And, then, she saw the hunger in his eyes.

 

He took two steps forward, grabbed her face with both hands, and kissed her deeply. She immediately wrapped her arms around him and pressed into him. They continued for several minutes, kissing with abandon in the moonlight, the occasional moan rumbling up from her throat.  One passionately whispering the name of the other in between their lips quickly and desperately meeting again. Eventually, a cough from behind them made them break their kiss.  Both of them were breathing quite heavily.

 

“I do hate to interrupt,” spoke Iorveth.  Even though neither were looking at him, they could “hear” the smile on his face.

 

“Gwynbleidd, when you have a moment, Queen Enid would like a word.”

 

Geralt looked down at Evie, still cradling her face in his hands, his thumbs resting lightly on the skin below her temples. Her eyes were, suddenly, full of concern. He looked over her head at Iorveth and gave him a nod.  He then looked back down at Evie.

 

“It’ll be okay,” he assured her.

 

oOo

 

            _“Damn, I’m tired of being right,”_ the witcher thought to himself.

 

            There were three large logs that had been arranged into the shape of a triangle with a small camp fire in the middle.  He was sitting on one of the logs by himself, opposite Iorveth, Francesca, and the other two elves.  Sure enough, they were questioning him on what he’d seen in the palace grounds and the palace itself.  The white-haired elf seemed to be asking most of the questions, and it appeared as if he’d taken an instant disliking to the witcher. Geralt knew it was simply a matter of time before they made their demands; though, he thought that it would probably be couched as a contract offer, at least, initially.

 

            “Didn’t see much.  Dead bodies that looked frozen.  That’s it,” the White Wolf answered.

 

            “Nothing else? Nothing in the palace?” brusquely asked the white-haired elf, who still hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. 

 

He was staring at the witcher with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to read the witcher’s mind. Due to the elf’s beady eyes, pointed nose and small, pursed mouth, Geralt decided that he’d just call him “Rat-face” until he found out his real name. Perhaps, even afterwards, as well.  

 

            Geralt wasn’t going to mention anything about the third-floor, even if they brought it up, which it didn’t look as if they were going to do voluntarily. He didn’t know exactly what was going on in that lab, but it didn’t look good.  And if it was something too nefarious – and he thought that it was possible given the presence of the screaming, flame-throwing ball of light - then they might simply choose to kill him and Evie right then and there to cover up whatever they’d been up to.

 

            “No. We were only in there about a minute when we felt the temperature drop around us. We couldn’t see anything but sensed something in front of us.  Evie screamed and took off running. I threw a couple of bombs in front of me and, then, ran out right behind her.” 

 

            Geralt hoped that lie sounded believable.  He still had no idea what had killed the non-charred corpses that he’d discovered so he was trying to be as vague and generic as possible. Francesca made eye contact with the white-haired elf who was not only shaking his head but, from the look on his face, also appeared has if he’d just sniffed someone’s flatulence. Then, she looked at the other elf, and, finally, at Iorveth – both of whom nodded their heads in the affirmative.

           

            _“And here it comes,”_ thought Geralt.

           

            “Vatt’ghern,” began the queen, “we could clearly use the services of someone with your skill-set. Of course, we’d be willing to pay.”

 

            “Yes, we know your _kind_ won’t work for free,” Rat-face stated snidely, putting as much derision into the word as possible.

           

            “Well, yeah…I _am_ a witcher. I take on contracts.  Not charity…for the weak and impotent,” responded the White Wolf, looking directly at Rat-face when he said the last.

 

Geralt was having a hard time keeping both the sarcasm and contempt out of his voice. For Evie’s sake, he wanted to keep the conversation as uncontentious as possible, but the white-haired elf was making it very difficult. What the witcher really wanted to do was to remove Rat-face’s head from his neck.  

 

            “You insignificant worm. You shouldn’t even -” started Rat-face. 

 

            “Enough, Allendor,” Francesca said with authority to the white-haired elf.

 

Apparently, his sarcasm and contempt had come through after all. Perhaps, he should have also left out the “weak and impotent” part, the witcher thought to himself. Well, no matter. Queen Enid then turned back to Geralt.

 

“So, what is the price to remove the entity in the palace grounds?”

 

            Geralt looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. This was the tricky part. The truth was that he would do it for free just to ensure that Evie remained safe, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them that.  

 

            “Two hundred Novigrad crowns or the equivalent in gems.”

 

            “Outrageous!” hissed Rat-face.

 

            “No, actually, it’s not,” retorted Geralt calmly. “In fact, I’m probably charging too little.”

 

            “And why do you say that, Gwynbleidd?” asked Iorveth with a smirk on his face.  The elf seemed to be enjoying himself.

 

            “Because I know you, Iorveth.  I’ve seen the fighting skill that you and your men possess.  And, I also know that Queen Enid here is a very powerful sorceress.  And I’m going to assume that you’ve already tried to remove this entity yourselves…and failed.  Which tells me that it is considerably dangerous. So, the price probably should be four to five hundred crowns.  But, I’m giving a ‘friends and family’ discount.”

 

            Iorveth’s smirk grew wider and he mock-clapped his hands in front of him. “I told you he wasn’t stupid, Allendor.”

 

oOo

 

            Evie was watching Geralt the entire time that he was speaking with Queen Enid and the other three elves.  Eventually, she saw him rise from where he was seated, walk carefully out of the cave, and, then, return shortly carrying his two large saddle bags.  He returned to where Evie, Lydial, and Barcain were camped, sat down next to Evie, and turned to Lydial.  As he was about to speak, he felt Evie reach under his arm and place her hand on his forearm. He looked over, into her eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. It was a small smile, but it was there, nonetheless. He, then, turned and looked at Evie’s grandmother.

           

            “Lydial, I know that the Aen Seidhe are very secretive about…well, everything, but I’m hoping you can give me some answers. I don’t trust that group over there to tell me that water is wet.”

 

            Lydial didn’t say anything for the longest time. “You’re going back into the palace, aren’t you?” she finally asked.

 

            The witcher just nodded his head. Lydial looked at him and then at her granddaughter. What she saw on Evie’s face was unmistakable.  

 

            “What do you need to know?” she finally asked.

 

            At that point, the witcher pulled his knife from its scabbard.

 

“How about we start was something not…too intrusive?”

 

            He then flipped the knife into the air, catching it by the flat part of the blade, and handed it handle-first to Lydial. He asked her to draw in the dirt a layout of the grounds. She talked as she sketched with the knife, indicating the location of the stables, the main kitchen, the servants’ living quarters, and the like.  Next, he had her draw, to the best of her knowledge, a diagram of the palace itself, especially all doorways leading in and out. She didn’t know exact details of the palace, but she had been in it a handful of times and could give him the general layout.  It turned out that the square-shaped palace was “hollowed” out in its center. The palace had been constructed around a large, uncovered garden. One could sit in that area and, depending upon the time of day, have the sun or stars overhead. 

 

            “Okay.  Next questions,” continued the witcher.  “This monster or beast in the palace – did you see it? Can you describe it? When did it first show up?”

 

            “Well, the time I saw it – the first time, I think, any of us saw it – was less than two weeks ago,” said Lydial.  “But, it started, at least, six months ago.”

 

She then looked at Barcain, who nodded in agreement. Geralt just remained quiet, listening. He knew that, sometimes, the worst thing he could do once he got someone re-telling a story was to interrupt them.

 

            “This ‘thing’ is hard to describe.  I only saw it once, the night we all fled from the palace grounds. It didn’t have a particular shape or form. For example, it didn’t have the body of an elf, a wolf, or a bird.  It didn’t look like any living thing I’ve ever seen– just like condensed, thick fog – but, not really like that either.  But, it’s the blackest of black I’ve ever seen.  Like I said, I saw it at night, so things were already dark. The only reason I could tell something was there was because it was just so much darker than the night sky around it. Do you know how, normally, light gets rid of the darkness?  With this thing, I get the feeling that it’s the exact opposite. I get the feeling that if I’d seen it during the day, it would’ve just sucked in all the light from around it, making everything else dark around it.”

 

“And cold,” add Barcain. “When it appeared, I felt a chill down into my bones that I’ve never experienced even on the coldest of days.  I once spent a winter up in Poviss, and I’ve never felt anything like this.”

 

Lydial nodded.  “The night it attacked, there in our huts by the armory, I woke up to some screaming, and I was shivering in my bed.  We all ran outside. When we saw it, we all took off running towards the gates.  I heard a yell from behind, and when I looked back I saw that Lorrian had fallen to the ground.  The ‘thing’ looked different then.  Like, it had become more solid or dense, and then it just wrapped itself around Lorrian and…May Essea bless his soul.” She didn’t continue, just shifted her gaze to the fire.

 

“It didn’t speak, make any noise?” Geralt asked.

 

Lydial and Barcain looked at one another, shaking their heads.

 

“Not that I ever heard,” replied Barcain.

 

“You said this started six months back.  What makes you say that since you only saw this black mist last week?”

 

“You went in there, right?” asked Lydial. Upon seeing Geralt nod his head, she continued. “Then you know how dark and cold it is.  But, not just that, you feel…dreadful.”

 

Barcain picked up the story. “We didn’t notice at the time. I mean, you don’t really notice if the temperature drops just one degree.  You may not even notice if the temperature drops ten degrees if it’s done gradually one degree per day.  You’d only notice if it was a drastic drop in a short period of time.  But, this past week, since we fled, we’ve been discussing this – pretty much non-stop.  We remembered that we made a comment to each other months ago – when we should’ve been enjoying the beginning of spring weather -  that the winter seemed particularly long and depressing this year.  It didn’t really seem important at the time, but now it does.”

 

“But, it actually could’ve started even months before that,” added Lydial.  “Most likely, we probably didn’t even notice it if it was a gradual change. Now that I really think about it, the cold and dark and dreariness may have started last summer, just not to the extent it is now.”

 

Geralt was listening intently, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands laced together in front of him.

 

“Geralt, I’m confused. The black fog they’re describing is nothing like the thing that we saw,” interjected Evie in a whisper.

 

He turned to her, nodded his head, and said quietly, “I’m getting there.”

 

She looked back at him and nodded her head.  This was his area of expertise, after all. She’d defer to him.

 

“I know that a group of elves went back in recently. Do you know anything about that?”

 

Lydial turned to look at Barcain.

 

“Yeah, I was one that went in – about twenty of us,” he said.

 

“Was Queen Enid part of the group?”

 

“Yes, and Ida Emean, too.  She’s a sorceress, as well.” Geralt nodded that he knew. “They split the groups up.  The group I was in searched the lower floor of the palace. Queen Enid and Ida’s group said they’d take the top floor.  We agreed we’d work our way through the rooms and meet in the middle.”

 

“Let me guess, that never happened.”

 

Barcain shook his head.  “We were in the palace maybe ten, fifteen minutes, when we heard chaos from up above.  We ran towards the main stairwells at the front of the palace and headed up, but by the time we hit the second floor, we met the other group already coming down. There was only four of their group left.”

 

“Who else besides the queen survived from that group?”

 

“Allendor, Iorveth, and Nuremel.” Barcain paused just a moment before adding, “The four you were talking to earlier.” 

 

The witcher nodded his head. He didn’t look surprised at all by that information.

 

“And they haven’t discussed with anyone what happened.”

 

It was a statement from the witcher, not a question.  Barcain shook his head.

 

“Okay,” said Geralt as he turned his attention back to Lydial. “I appreciate what you’ve told me so far. This is where the questions become more difficult, more personal.” He paused a moment, leaned forward slightly, and in a lowered voice asked, “In the past six to twelve months, has there been anything else going on in this community?  Anything out of the ordinary – fights, elves going missing, weird dreams, strange noises at night, blood falling from the sky – any of that sort of thing?”

 

Lydial just stared at the witcher.

 

“Nain,” Evie stated softly, “you can trust him. I promise.”

 

Lydial looked at Barcain. 

 

After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Chiesa?”

 

She sighed, nodded her head, and, then looked Geralt in the eyes.

 

“What do you know about the elven reproductive cycle?” she asked.

 

“Let’s pretend I know nothing and start from there.”

 

For the next ten minutes, Lydial gave the witcher a crash course on the ins and outs of Aen Seidhe reproduction, specifically regarding the female of the species.  Male elves were almost identical to humans with regards to their development of sexual organs.  Both seemed to mature and obtain the ability to procreate in their early teenage years.  And like human males, the elf counterpart could sustain that ability to sire children very late into life.  The female Aen Seidhe, however, were very different than her human counterpart.  And it was these differences that was causing the Aen Seidhe to die out.

 

The first difference was that female Aen Seidhe didn’t start producing viable eggs until sometime in their late 40’s to early 50’s.  Given the dangers of the world – disease, famine, persecution, and war – many females simply didn’t live long enough to reach the age of fertility. Secondly, while the total number of potential eggs produced by the human and elf were roughly the same over the course of their lifetimes, the “window” of fertility for the two were dramatically different.  A typical woman could remain fertile for thirty or more years, ovulating roughly once a month.  A female elf, on the other hand, had only somewhere between five and seven years to bear children, though she did, amazingly, produce one egg each week during that time.  Thirdly, compared to the nine-month gestation period for a human fetus, elves required around eighteen months of development between conception and birth.  Thus, even in a best-case scenario, it would have been very rare for an Aen Seidhe family to have more than two to three off-spring.  Taken all together, it became clear why humans had been able to conquer the elves and push them from their lands.  The Aen Seidhe had simply been overwhelmed by the humans’ ability to procreate.  With everything else being equal, in a war of attrition, the more populous nation would always win.

 

“Interesting,” remarked the witcher. He then raised his brows and prompted, “And…?”

 

“Look around, Geralt.  There are very few of us left.  Of course, this isn’t news to us.  As a community, we’ve discussed for years how we could turn this around.  One of the most obvious solutions was to obtain a nation of our own.  A land where we’d free of persecution.  But, that’s never worked out.  Even when we’re given land, the humans, eventually, come in. Bring in their diseases and push us out.” 

 

“And the other solutions that were suggested?”

 

Lydial sighed. “Things…got contentious with the proposed decree of forced pregnancies.”

 

Evie’s eyes went wide, and Geralt nodded. “I bet.”

 

“Now, don’t misunderstand.  I’m not talking about a female being taken against her will.  Those in authority – the queen and her advisors - were going to allow the female to pick who she wanted as the father.  But, make no mistake – the decree made it clear that the female would get pregnant, and would get pregnant as many times as possible, for as long as she was able.”

 

“And, if she chose not to?” asked the witcher.

 

Lydial shrugged. “Fortunately, it never came to that.  There were…are only a handful of fertile elves and they all chose to get pregnant voluntarily. So, the decree was never actually enforced.  But, that just goes to show how desperate things have become.”

 

Geralt shook his head. “I wonder why the queen and her advisors thought a decree like that would even be necessary.  I’d think the Aen Seidhe females would want to have as many children as possible simply out of a civic duty.”

 

“For the most part, I agree,” stated Lydial.

 

“Hell, Queen Enid could have even incentivized things, given a little external motivation.  Offered goods, or land, or services for every child born.”

 

Lydial nodded. “Yes, that would have been a much better approach than a dictatorial decree stripping us of personal liberties,” she replied with understatement. 

 

“Bloody political elite. I swear, they’ve got no sense,” said Geralt shaking his head.   
“But, it doesn’t end there, does it?”

 

“No.  Despite the decree not being passed, the events did create a divide in the community between the Esseans and the others. Well, it didn’t create the divide. Just made it bigger.”

 

Geralt furrowed his brow.  “Esseans? I’ve never heard of them.”

 

“They are those who believe that Essea is God.”

 

“Wait, I thought the Aen Seidhe believed in the god, Dana Meadbh?”

 

Lydia nodded. “There are some that do and some that don’t. The Aen Seidhe, in this respect, are similar to the other races. Our religious beliefs run the gamut, from atheism to polytheism.  But, the Esseans are the faction of the Aen Seidhe that believe that Essea is the one, true, living God and that all other beings – both spiritual and earthly - are subservient to Him.”

 

“Okay, that’s definitely new knowledge, but why did this proposed decree cause a division between Esseans and others?  I would think that a controversial law like that would have united everyone.”

 

“Because Esseans believe in the sanctity of the family, the beauty of marriage.  And that children should only be conceived within the confines of that hallowed family. When a child is brought into this world without a loving father and mother…there are always negative effects, for the child… and for our society, as a whole.”

 

“I still don’t understand the problem. You said all the females chose to get pregnant so that the decree wasn’t passed.”

 

“Indeed, they did choose to get pregnant, but not all chose to marry.”

 

“Ah,” responded the witcher. After a moment, he continued.  “So, then, what exactly was…or is the _Essean_ plan to repopulate the Aen Seidhe?”

 

“To simply trust in Him, that He will provide a refuge for His chosen.  We simply need to trust in Him and obey His commands.”

 

“We?” asked Geralt.

 

Lydial smiled. “Yes, I believe that Essea is the one, true God.”

 

Geralt sighed and then looked at the small clusters of elves huddled together around the cavern.

 

“No offense, Lydial, but it looks like your god has forgotten about you.”

 

            She smiled warmly at Geralt. “I admit, that is, indeed, how it appears.  But, I believe that this is simply a test of our faith.”

 

            “Faith in what exactly?”

 

            “In His faithfulness to us.  It’s a test to see if we truly believe in the promises that He has made to us – His promise to preserve us, never to forsake us. It is quite easy to follow and rely on a god when my life has no troubles. It’s quite easy to say how good he is then. Though, in truth, during those times of comfort, it’s quite common to drift from Him and forget about Him completely.  But, when life is dire, when we have been crushed, when we can’t get through the storms on our own, do we despair and lose hope? Do we turn our backs on Him…or do we turn to Essea, who is there with open arms to say, ‘Rest in Me.’”?

 

Geralt shook his head. “Well, look around…I’d say things are dire. So, is he going to split the sky or rend the earth and bring forth some miracle to save the Aen Seidhe? 

 

Lydial laughed. “That would be amazing, wouldn’t it?”  She had a joyful smile on her face. “Geralt, I don’t know His plans.  He _could_ act in an obviously visible way.  I would love it if He did, to see the might of His glory on display, as He used to do in the past for the Aen Seidhe.  But, He could also act with the lightest and most subtle of touches. Ghloirinevellienn can move the earth with just a whisper.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Sorry, that is another name for Essea.”

 

The witcher looked lost in thought for a moment, rubbing his hand over his beard several times. Eventually, his eyes shifted back to Lydial.

 

“Okay. While this is fascinating and all, is it leading somewhere?”

 

Suddenly, Lydial got a very serious look on her face. “Yes, there was one female who would have refused to get pregnant?”

 

“Wait, you said the decree was dropped because _all_ the elves chose to become mothers.”

 

Lydial shook her head. “I apologize for misleading you.  All the elves _available_ chose to get pregnant, but…Chiesa went missing during that time. We were told that she left a note, indicating the she was heading south, for warmer climates and to get away from the proposed decree. But, I never saw the note, and I don’t believe it.  I’d never heard her speak once about leaving.”

 

“And you know for sure that she wouldn’t have gotten pregnant even if the decree had passed?”

 

Lydial nodded and smiled sadly. “Yes. She was a devout Essean…and she was unmarried.  So, no, she would have never had a child voluntarily.”

 

Geralt had a grim look on his face. He leaned back, looked at Barcain, then Evie, before turning his eyes back to Lydial.

 

“Bloody hell,” he whispered to himself.

 

oOo

 

            The witcher had just finished brushing out the coat of Evie’s horse and was about to start on Roach, when he heard some soft music coming closer through the woods.  He then noticed Iorveth walk up and lean against the trunk of nearby tree, playing mournful notes on his flute.  As the witcher began to groom his horse, he decided to strike up a conversation. Why else would the elf be there if not to talk?

 

            “I’m surprised to see you here in the mountains, Iorveth.”

 

            “Why so, Vatt’ghern?  I’m Aen Seidhe, and this is, in theory, Aen Seidhe land.”

 

            “Just didn’t think that you’d ever stop your fight against the humans.”

 

            “My fight – our fight - was never, specifically, against the dh’oine, Gwynbleidd.”

 

            “Yeah? I think they’d beg to differ – especially, all of the ones you put in the grave.”

 

            Iorveth shook his head.  “Then, you understand nothing. The Aen Seidhe have never fought _against_ anything.  Our fight was always _for_ something – for independence, for liberty; for freedom to live as we please, for freedom from the tyranny and persecution of others.  It just so happens that the tyranny and persecution has always come from the dh’oine. But, I’d have fought just as vigorously against the dwarves, half-lings, or any others who would trample on our rights all in the name of progress.”

 

            “I guess that’s one perspective.”

 

            “Indeed…and what would your perspective be?”

 

            Geralt just shook his head as he continued to brush Roach. 

 

“You know what…it doesn’t matter. One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.  So…why, then, aren’t you still out there fighting _for_ your freedom.”

 

            After a long pause, the elf answered, “I realized that my fight, somewhere along the way, had become misguided.”

 

            That got the witcher’s attention. Geralt stopped brushing Roach and looked at Iorveth, who at some point had hopped up into a low fork of the tree.  After a moment, Geralt turned back to his horse. 

 

“Did you hear that, girl? An elf displaying some humility.  Yeah, I know…I’m scared, too.”

 

            “I’m glad to see that you have finally found your intellectual equal, Vatt’ghern,” Iorveth replied with his scarred smile.

 

            Geralt smirked back.  “You know, I think Roach may be more insulted by that comment than I am. Anyway…you said you were misguided?”

 

The elf nodded, his face turning serious. “Yes. It was one thing when we were fighting with the Nilfgaardians against the North during the Second War because we believed that we were helping to achieve our end goal – freedom.  But, then, of course, the Nilfgaardians proved themselves…betrayers, typical of all dh’oine. And, then, it made sense for us to fight again – this time with Saskia – because, again, doing so would help us gain freedom.  But…you know how that ended.  After Loc Muinne, I continued to fight, for a while, killing dh’oine at every opportunity.  But, as I said, I eventually realized I had lost my way.”

 

            “How so?”

 

“My zealousness for freedom had…somewhere along the line, turned to simple rage – rage against the dh’oine, against the world…against the unfairness of it all. It had blinded me to my original aim. Instead of fighting for freedom, I was killing simply for revenge. I realized that I had turned into the very thing that the dh’oine always said I was.”

 

             “So, you laid down your sword and bow and came here? Just like that?”

 

            “Yes, I wasn’t about to let the dh’oine be right about anything,” he said with a laugh, though there wasn’t much joy in it.

 

            “So, you came back here and…?”

 

            “…and tried to be productive member of our little society.  Used my bow to supply food instead of to murder.”

 

            “Sounds…worthy.”

 

            “Perhaps, but most likely futile.”

 

            “In what way?”

 

“Please, Gwynbleidd, even you can see that we are doomed.” He paused and then said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I think…the Aen Seidhe are simply cursed.”

 

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that so he didn’t say anything.  Eventually, Iorveth broke the silence with a deep sigh.

 

“You know, Vatt’ghern, just once…I’d like to be on the winning side. To sleep the sleep of the righteous victor.”  

 

The witcher nodded his head. “Yeah…that sounds nice to me, too, Iorveth,” he replied, staring at the elf.

 

“Well, va faill, Gwynbleidd,” he said has he hopped out of the tree.  “Till the next.”

 

As he walked away, he began softly playing on his flute.

 

The witcher stared at the Aen Seidhe’s back until he finally disappeared into the woods. He stayed silent and still until he could no longer hear the somber notes of the elf’s dirge.

 

oOo

 

Evie rolled over on her pallet and sighed again.  She thought that must have been at least the hundredth time that she’d rolled over in the last two hours.  She opened her eyes, sat up, and looked around the very dark cavern.  Almost all of the campfires were out, though most still possessed glowing embers.  However, there was one small fire still burning in an isolated corner of the cave, far from all the others. In front of the fire, knelt her witcher. She smiled at that thought, that he was “her” witcher.  Just when did that happen?  She didn’t exactly know and, frankly, she didn’t really care.  She just knew that it sounded right.  It was right. She continued to watch him from a distance as he brewed, mixed, and crafted whatever it was that he was creating.  She noticed the smoke from his small fire drifting up higher and higher.  She then realized something that she hadn’t noticed before.  In the ceiling of the cave, about twenty feet above the cavern floor, there were a few holes that led to the mountain ground above and acted as vents for the smoke from the campfires to escape.  She eventually stood up and began walking quietly in his direction.  As she got a few yards away, she noticed Geralt tilt his head up just a bit. She smiled at that. She knew that she’d never be able to sneak up on him.

 

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “Can I join you?”

 

The witcher turned his head. “Yeah, I’m done with the brewing part. It’s safe. Let me make some room for you first.”

 

He began transferring a variety of objects from his left side over to his right.  Evie noticed that he was handling them very carefully.

 

She sat down on the ground next to him, both legs tucked underneath her. She leaned into him, hugging his left arm and resting her head on his shoulder.

 

“Geralt, please tell me you know what’s going on. Do you know what this black mist is? Have you fought something like this before? Do you know how to kill it? Is it related what we saw on the third floor?”

 

“That’s a lot of questions, Evie.” She could hear the mirth in his voice.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m just…scared. And I feel useless…because I don’t know how to help you.”

 

Geralt removed his arm from her grip, turned towards her, and pulled her into a hug.

 

“You’ve never been married, right?” she asked.

 

“What? Uh…no.” The witcher was completely nonplussed by the question. “Why are you asking me that, of all things, right now?”

 

“Because I can’t imagine how your wife could stay home and not lose her mind – knowing you’re out doing the stuff you do.”

 

Geralt immediately thought of Yennefer and some of the fights they’d had over the years.  Many - directly or indirectly - revolved around that very issue.

 

“Yeah, it’d be tough,” he answered.  “I know I couldn’t do it if the tables were reversed.”

 

They didn’t say anything for a while. They just held onto one another, finding comfort in the intimacy.

 

She finally broke the silence. “So, do you know what it is?”

 

The witcher reached up with his right hand and slowly scratched his beard-covered jaw.

 

“I’m not sure, because I’ve never actually come across one myself, but I think it’s a cirnubaug.”

 

Evie broke their embrace and leaned back a bit, facing the witcher. “What the heck is that?”

 

“It’s the name Vesemir gave it. I think it’s…evil, Evie.”

 

“Well, _yeah,_ it’s clearly evil, Geralt.  But, is it some kind of wraith or – what did you tell me that one thing was – a hym?”

 

He shook his head. “No, you misunderstand.  I think it’s evil…incarnate.”

 

“What? Like, _actual_ evil? How is that even possible?”

 

The witcher slightly shrugged. “I can remember Vesemir telling me about something like this once.”

 

“Was he able to kill it?”

 

“Funny, I asked him the same thing.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He said, ‘You can’t kill evil, Geralt. It lives in the hearts of men. You can’t kill it any more than you could kill jealousy or pride.’”

 

Evie suddenly had a very displeased look on her face. “Well, that’s just great, Geralt. Why are you going in there if this thing can’t be killed?”

 

“Said it couldn’t be killed.  Never said it couldn’t be beaten.”

 

Evie shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Might not can kill it, but I hope to send it back to wherever it came from.”

 

After a moment, she asked, “Do you _know_ where it came from, why it’s here?”

 

“I’ve got a hunch, but that’s all it is, right now. When Vesemir had his experience, he said that it was haunting some cultish temple, hidden out in some backwoods area.  There’d been all kinds of sacrifices – virgins slaughtered, ritualistic cannibalism, that sort of thing.  Vesemir hypothesized that the evil and depravity there was so concentrated that it just manifested itself physically. Became a tangible entity.”

 

“But, how is that possible?” 

 

“Don’t know exactly.  Vesemir didn’t either.  Truth be told, if his hypothesis is true, that evil _can_ become incarnate, then I don’t know why it doesn’t happen more often. The stuff I’ve seen…”  But, he didn’t finish speaking.

 

“Why exactly do you think this is evil, and not just some kind of wraith or other monster?”

 

“A couple of things. First, the corpses.  I’ve never seen anything like that. They had no blood, Evie. None. It was just gone.  And, I didn’t see any wounds on the bodies, no puncture marks like a vampire would leave.”

 

“Okay, that is very weird…and frightening, but I still don’t understand why you think this monster is evil incarnate.”

 

“Look, Evie, I could be wrong, but I’ve just never seen anything like this before, and I’ve been doing this a long time.  And it’s in no bestiary that I’ve ever read. So, I’ve asked myself. What does evil want more than anything else?  It wants to kill, to destroy.  It wants to destroy relationships. It wants to destroy intimacy.  It wants to destroy peace and hope and dreams. Contentment and joy.  But, mostly, it wants to destroy life.  All of it. In my time, I’ve come across a few men that I thought were pure evil.  And all they wanted to do, Evie, is watch the whole world burn.

 

“So, then, I thought, what are some things associated with ‘life?’  Well, there’s blood. There’s life in our blood.  And, this thing, I don’t know how, just sucks it all out.  There’s also warmth associated with life.  To live we need heat. Also, living things give off heat.  You know something’s dead when it’s stone cold.  There’s also light.  To truly live healthy lives, we need to have light.  And this thing…is the antithesis of all those. Did you notice that there was nothing living on that palace ground?”

 

            Evie nodded her head.

 

            “And there’s one more thing…and I know you felt it when you were in there.”

 

            She nodded again. “Yeah. It made me feel like I just wanted to curl up in a ball and die.”

 

            This time Geralt nodded his head. “This thing is like no monster that I’ve ever come across.”

 

            She looked him in the eye, slightly shaking her head.

 

“Evil incarnate…that’s just great, Geralt. I came over here because I was scared to death, thinking maybe talking to you would calm me down.  Heck, I should’ve just stayed where I was.” She leaned forward to hug him again.  “Please tell me that you, at least, have a plan.” 

 

            The witcher looked around him on the ground and then whispered into Evie’s ear.

 

“Yeah. That I do.”

 

oOo

 

            The witcher opened his eyes and took in a completely dark and mostly quiet cavern.  He could hear running water from a stream that was somewhere nearby.  He could also hear Evie’s soft breathing coming from right in front of him.  She had brought her sleeping pallet next to him during the night and had finally been able to fall asleep, mostly due to pure exhaustion. 

 

He watched her as she slept, and he suddenly realized how tired he felt.  He was supposed to feel refreshed after a meditation session, but for some reason, he felt a weariness down in his bones. He knew that for a normal human one hundred years of age was ancient, and, in truth, for a witcher, living that long was quite rare, as well.  The saying, “No witcher ever died in his bed,” was only half the story.  Most witchers also died young.  Despite the witchers’ training and enhanced physical skills, in the end, the monsters always won.  All it took was one simple mistake, one mistimed parry, one slip of the foot. Geralt knew it was rare to see a witcher live past thirty or forty years of age.  Now, in theory, due to their mutated bodies, a hundred years wasn’t even middle-aged for a witcher.  He didn’t know Vesemir’s exact age – the old curmudgeon never would reveal it – but Geralt knew that he had to have been at least three centuries old when he finally died last summer.  So, again, in witcher years, Geralt knew that he was still fairly young. That said, he also knew it wasn’t really the years that mattered.  It was the wear and tear. He realized his incredible skills were a double-edged sword.  They kept him alive in dangerous encounters when most other witchers would have perished.  But, the longer he stayed alive, the more punishment his body took.  The stitches that he could still feel in his backside were a reminder of that.  He knew that he didn’t have enough unscarred tissue on his body to make even a decent lamp shade.

 

But, as weary as he was physically, he thought that he may have felt even more so mentally.  The constant awareness that he was always just one step from death’s hand, the unrelenting stress of always living on the edge was, to be honest, exhausting. And while the unavoidable reach of death was true for every living thing, he knew that most folk simply chose not to think about it. He knew that for most, while they obviously knew that they’d die one day, they rarely, if ever, actually thought about that day.  It was just some far-off, theoretical concept.  It wasn’t real. They could keep their inevitable fate buried deep down in the psyche, where they wouldn’t have to address it, wrestle with it, actually come to terms with it. And they had that luxury, given their safe, care-free lives. But, that was a luxury he didn’t have. He was forced to face head-on the prospect of his mortality on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis, it seemed.  He realized that his entire life, essentially, revolved around death.  The deliberate, energetic pursuit of causing it, and the equally as strong, intentional avoidance of it for himself.  And that was a hard way to live, seemingly, every single day. Frankly, it was a grind.

 

While the darkness inside of him relished killing, there was, in fact, another part of him that, surprisingly for a witcher to say, loathed it.  That part of him always preferred, as much as it depended upon him, to complete a contract in any other way besides his sword.  Unfortunately, that was rarely possible. So much killing, so much death, the witcher thought to himself.  There had to be more to life than just the completion of one killing contract after another, right? Then, he looked down at Evie again, restfully sleeping.  He looked at her longingly for several minutes, simply lost in the comfort of watching her peaceful face and hearing her slowly and rhythmically breathe in and out.  He resisted the urge to bend down and softly kiss her cheek. He was afraid he might wake her. Finally, he nodded his head, closed his eyes, and sighed.  He felt a strong desire to simply lay down behind her, take her in his arms, and fall asleep with her.  But, he didn’t, and he knew he wouldn’t – at least, not now.  He had a job to do, and the sooner it was finished, the sooner they could leave. 

 

            Prior to her falling asleep, they’d finally had the opportunity to discuss in detail what they thought was in the third-floor lab and what he thought the ball of fire actually was.  After that, he had recommended to her that, while he was in the palace grounds later that day, she – and her grandmother and brother, if they wanted – abandon Dol Blathanna for the north. He didn’t know how Queen Enid and Rat-face would respond after he had defeated the cirnubaug, but that was the point.  He just didn’t know. He had told her that he wanted her as far as way as possible just in case they next tried to demand he take on the third-floor monster or if they reneged on the deal.  He didn’t want them to be able to use her against him in any way. Of course, Evie wouldn’t hear of it.

 

            “There is absolutely no freaking way I am going to leave here while you’re still in that palace,” she had made clear to him.

 

            He had just looked at her with a small, rueful grin.  “I knew you’d say, ‘No,’ but I still had to try.”           

 

Now, looking down at her, he wished he’d tried harder. With a deep sigh, the aging witcher got to his feet and walked out into the early-morning moonlight.  He had his two saddle bags hanging over his left shoulder and was holding a large, obviously full bag in his left hand.  Given what he was carrying, he didn’t mount Roach.  He knew walking would be safer.

 

            A half hour later, the witcher approached the palace gates.  He stopped twenty feet in front of them, looking into the palace grounds.  As it was still at least an hour before sunrise and with the thick fog hovering above, the grounds would have been unnavigable to a normal human. He reached into a side pouch and pulled out three witcher elixirs, one of which was Cat.  He was about to drink them down, when a familiar voice broke through the silence, a voice coming from the shadows.

 

            “Looks like you’re really gonna go through with this.”

 

            The witcher turned his head toward the direction of the voice. He could just make out the elf’s form in the darkness.

 

“It’s what I do, Iorveth.” 

 

            The elf laughed. “Do you really need the coin that badly?  Personally, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d taken your leave with the lovely Miss Evie in the middle of the night.”

 

            “I gave my word.”

 

            The elf laughed again, but this time, there was no mirth in it. “One’s word? You’re honestly concerned with honor, Vatt’ghern?”

 

            The witcher shrugged. “I don’t have much…so I’d like to keep what I’ve got.”

 

            After a moment of silence, the elf asked, “Have you ever lost it, Gwynbleidd?”

 

            “Iorveth, I don’t have time for this.”

 

            “Of course, you do. The monster can wait.  Honor, Geralt. Have you ever lost yours?”

 

            The witcher sighed. “Yeah…more times than I can count.”

 

            The elf nodded. “And did you ever earn it back?”

 

            He was silent a long time. Finally, he said, “No, I never have. No matter how much I’ve tried.”

 

            The Aen Seidhe commander nodded his head slowly at Geralt several times.

 

“I…unfortunately, agree, Gwynbleidd.” After a long pause, he continued. “Now, let’s go kill the creepy-crawly, shall we?”

 

            The witcher shook his head. “Don’t think so. I work alone.”

 

            “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

 

            Geralt was confused and exasperated. “What the hell for, Iorveth? You trying to earn back some lost honor?”

 

            The elf finally stepped out of the deep shadows and into what little moonlight existed. 

 

“No, Geralt. We’ve already established that’s not possible.”

 

            “Then, why? Why go in there?  You’re good, Iorveth, but this thing…it’s out of your weight class. It may be out of mine.”

 

            “Most assuredly so.”

 

            “Then, why?”

 

            “Penance, Gwynbleidd. Penance.”

 

            “Then, you need to talk to a priest, not a witcher.” After a long sigh, he asked, “Just what do you need to give penance for?”

 

            “Not for what, Geralt. For whom.” 

 

The two just stared at each other for the longest time.  When the witcher realized that no more information would be divulged and that he wasn’t going to be able to change the elf’s mind, he slowly shook his head, but, then said, “Fine. But, I am going to tell you what the plan is so that you don’t bugger things up eight ways to Sunday.”

 

Ten minutes later, the two walked into the palace ground, shutting and securing the gates behind them.

 

           


	10. Chapter 10

            Geralt stood still with his silver sword in his left hand and a bomb in his right. He was listening closely and turning his head slowly as he surveyed the entry foyer, the moisture vapor of his exhalations condensing as soon as it hit the frigid air of the palace. The foyer didn’t look or feel any different than when he’d seen it the previous day, which was actually a good thing.  At least, that variable hadn’t changed. The witcher already felt that he was walking into this situation way too blind.  Truth be told, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure if what he was facing was a cirnubaug since he’d never even seen one before.  In fact, this could be some new monster that no one had ever fought.  And while he had a guess as to what the monster in the third-floor lab was, he wasn’t completely confident about that, either.  He sensed that it was some type of wraith, but it didn’t exactly look or act like any wraith he’d ever come across. He’d never known any wraith that could cast out balls of fire. In many respects, it seemed more akin to a djinn.  

 

All of this unknown made him feel ill at ease.  Geralt realized that he was simply too ignorant of what he was about to confront, and in the witcher profession, ignorance was a killer. That was the entire reason that witcher training didn’t consist simply of the building and honing of physical skills – weapons, Signs, strength, stamina, agility, and so forth.  While the mastery of all those facets was absolutely vital if one wanted to last more than a month in the profession, they weren’t enough, in and of themselves.  Just as important was knowledge, including knowledge of the enemy.  It was why witchers spent hours every day in their youth slogging through different bestiaries. It was in knowing one’s enemy that one could also know its weaknesses, which would, in turn, direct the witcher in terms of strategy – what type of decoctions, oils, and bombs to use; the best time of day to attack; the appropriate methods of curse-breaking; and the like. Contrary to popular belief, witchers – or, at least, the ones with any longevity – weren’t mindless.  Truth be told, their minds had to be as sharp as their blades.  And, in fact, they were much more educated than the general populace. They were taught the alphabet, how to read, and mathematics, as early as possible.  And all of those in multiple languages. They were also, obviously, experts in the areas of plant, animal, and monster taxonomy; alchemy; human anatomy and physiology; autopsy procedures; and much more.  Geralt just hoped that all of his expertise would help him survive today.

 

Before the witcher took another step, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder to the wide open front doors of the palace and to the portico beyond.  He thought back to all the preparations that he and Iorveth had put in place in the last half hour.  He shook his head as he realized just how childishly simple his plan was. But, that was okay.  Sometimes, the best plans were the simplest ones, or, at least, that was what he was telling himself.  But, he knew that, regardless of the veracity of the statement, the key to any plan – simple or complicated - was its execution, which made him remember his last words with Iorveth just a few minutes before.

 

_“Well, good luck, Vatt’ghern. I’ll see you shortly…unless you cock it up.”_

_“You know, I can see why you instill such loyalty in the men you lead.  Your words are truly inspiring.” That brought a smirk to the elf’s face. “And thanks, but I don’t believe in luck.”_

_“No? Then, how about this - May Essea keep you.” And he extended his hand._

_Geralt furrowed his brow, but accepted the gesture, looking the elf in his one good eye._

_“You’re an Essean?”_

_A strange smile came across the elf’s face._

_“In my youth. But, like most…abandoned the faith many years ago.  But, he is the protector God of the Aen Seidhe so I figure…it couldn’t hurt to invoke his name.”_

_“Yeah, but I’m not Aen Seidhe.”_

_“Looks like your buggered then.”_

_“Swell.”_

_The elf squeezed Geralt’s hand a little firmer and gave it a small shake. “Then, I wish you well, Gwynbleidd.”_

_He nodded back. “Yeah, I wish us all well.”_

 

The witcher looked back toward the interior of the palace, inhaled deeply before slowly breathing out, and, then, he began walking sideways up the left stairs with his back towards the wall.  He wasn’t going to bother searching the downstairs area for he was pretty sure on what floor of the palace that he’d find the cirnubaug.  

 

When he got to the third-floor landing, he stopped, listened again, and waited for his medallion to twitch.  But he heard and sensed nothing.  He still had his back to the wall so he peered around the corner to his left and looked down the long corridor – the one on the opposite side of the staircases to the corridor that housed the lab.  Again, he saw nothing dangerous, just doorways on either side of the corridor.  He looked forward to the corridor that was in front of him and slightly to his left.  Along the left side, there were several doors, but the right side consisted of nothing but a stained-glass window that started about four feet above the floor and ran all the way towards the ceiling.  He noticed then that the stained-glass window also ran along the wall in front of him about twenty feet to the right until it ended at another corridor.  The Cat potion only really allowed him to see in black and white so he couldn’t discern the colors in the stained glass, but he could see that there were images in them. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if the image before him depicted several large, white boats being pushed by a great wave towards a towering cliff.  He briefly wondered just what that was about. Some obscure event from Aen Seidhe history, he mused.

 

The witcher was pretty confident of what was behind the windows, but he wanted to verify for himself.  He looked to his right, down the corridor towards the lab.  He still didn’t see or sense any danger so he walked across the hallway and stood by the glass.  He could see that the window wasn’t one twenty-foot-long sheet of glass.  Instead, it consisted of several panes housed in individual panels.  He placed his sword back in its scabbard and slowly turned a latch on the edge of one of the panels. He then pushed the latch – and window – forward, allowing the pane of glass to swing away from him.  He leaned over the four-foot ledge and looked down to see the inner courtyard below him.  He noticed a small, dead tree of some variety in the middle of the courtyard. There were two circular fountains on either side of it.  From this height, the water in them looked pitch black.  He could also see a few dead shrubs and benches scattered about the garden. 

 

He didn’t bother shutting the window but simply began walking down the hall towards the lab. He looked down to see that the corpses were still present. He took a cautious step forward between two of the corpses. The palace was eerily quiet, and as was his habit in these situations, he was being very deliberate in how he stepped, being careful not to scrape the heels of his boots across the floor.  He winced when the cartilage in his knee decided to crunch and pop has he placed his weight down on his leg.  In such silence, the pop sounded as loud as a bomb detonating. But, then he shook his head as he remembered that the noise didn’t matter.  He was moving with stealth – out of a habit built over decades - even though his plan didn’t call for it.  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. While he actually wanted the cirnubaug to find and confront him, he wanted to ball of fire to stay safely in the lab – safely for the witcher, that is.

 

As he got closer to the lab door, his medallion twitched slightly as it had the previous day.  He quickly looked behind him but saw nothing but an empty hallway. He reached the closed door of the lab and his medallion twitched again. He peered down another long hallway to his left that ran perpendicular to the one that he’d just traversed.  He didn’t see the cirnubaug there either so he figured the medallion was twitching from whatever – most likely the ball of fire - was on the other side of the door.

 

He had just decided to start investigating this new corridor when his medallion starting shaking violently.  He immediately jumped back from the lab door as the fiery ball materialized in front of it, accompanied by its horrendous scream. Geralt turned and started sprinting as fast as he could, casting the Quen Sign as he ran.  Suddenly, he felt the temperature around him drop drastically and his medallion jumped again. Fifty feet ahead, coming towards him down the corridor, was the cirnubaug. It looked just as Lydial had described it – a ten-foot tall, four-foot wide, black mist, with no corporeal form.  The witcher sprinted faster, knowing that he had to get to the staircase before the cirnubaug. Otherwise, he’d be trapped in the corridor between the two monsters.  It appeared as if the cirnubaug knew this, too, because it seemed to speed up and also move to its right, hoping to cut off Geralt’s access to the stairs.  Still a good twenty feet away, the witcher threw the Br’er Coinin bomb in his right hand towards the fog, hoping that it would work as planned.  The bomb hit the floor in front of the cirnubaug, and when it detonated, a tar-like substance exploded all over the corridor and covered the fog-like monster. The thick, sticky pitch caused the cirnubaug to slow down, but not enough.  Geralt knew he’d never make the front stairs in time, but he hoped to get to the corridor off to his right that ran alongside the stained-glass windows.  Suddenly, he felt a ball of fire shoot over his left shoulder. It fortunately missed him, and better yet, it hit the cirnubaug. As he noticed the pitch-covered creature ignite, he cut hard to his right, and that’s when his world exploded.  A ball of fire hit him squarely in the back, and though the Quen shield took most of the damage, the explosion blasted him forward and off his feet – and straight towards the stained-glass window.  As his body hurled through the air, he instinctively closed his eyes and covered his face with his forearm.

 

The witcher flew through the pane, shards of glass exploding in all directions and then raining down towards the garden thirty feet below. Geralt opened his eyes just in time to see that he was heading for the small tree that he’d seen earlier. His upper body hit a limb, but in its dead, weakened state, it immediately snapped and did virtually nothing to slow his momentum.  An instant later, he hit another limb across his gut. This branch was slightly less brittle and slowed him, but only momentarily. He looked down as he fell the last fifteen feet towards the courtyard below. Five feet from the ground, he violently threw both of his hands downward, casting the most forceful Aard Sign that he could. The double-handed, powerful telekinetic blasts seemed to reduce his velocity just enough. As he hit the ground, he immediately buckled his knees and rolled. Despite his best efforts, he still heard a loud crack from his ankle.  Fortunately, his witcher potions were still flowing with full force so while he heard the injury, he didn’t feel its full effect. 

 

The White Wolf, down one knee, looked up to see a smoking cirnubaug jumping from the third-floor window.  But, unlike Geralt, who had fallen like a bag of bricks, it glided down on large, bat-like wings. Before it’d reached the garden floor, the witcher was up and running out of the courtyard towards the front doors of the palace.  He looked back to see that the cirnubaug had lost its wings and was now just a blob of black tar moving in his direction and moving fast.  As Geralt ran towards the exit, he could see that the sun had risen.  The outer palace garden was still dark and misty, but enough ambient light was coming through that he knew that Iorveth would now be able to adequately see.  The witcher sprinted as fast as he could and, as he reached the threshold of the front door, he leapt as high and as far as he could.  As soon as he had taken flight, he cast an Yrden Sign downward and then kept flying upward and outward. He cleared the entire portico entrance and landed halfway down the steps. His weakened ankle gave way as he landed, and he tumbled down the rest of the steps, ending up on his back on the crushed-shell pathway of the palace ground.

 

He looked up quickly, hoping and expecting to see and hear a blinding and deafening explosion.  But, it was deathly quiet except for his slightly heavy breathing.  The cirnubaug had stopped at the threshold of the palace doors.  Though it had no face or eyes as far as Geralt could discern, it seemed, to the witcher, to be looking out at and inspecting the portico.  Geralt got to his feet and faced the cirnubaug. His eyes darted quickly to his right to see Iorveth, hidden behind one of the large, portico columns, an arsenal of special witcher bombs at his feet.  Iorveth was peeking around the column, trying to get a glimpse of the creature at the front door.

 

“Come on, you son of a bitch, I’m right here,” the witcher said in a low voice as he looked back at the black monster.

 

 But, the cirnubaug still didn’t move forward.  Instead, it began to turn around. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like to Geralt. It then began moving back toward the interior of the palace.

 

The witcher ran forward, up two or three steps.  “No, you bastard, this way!” he yelled.

 

Suddenly, Geralt heard the now-familiar, hideous scream from the ball of fire. It had arrived from the third-floor hallway and was now in the foyer on the other side of the cirnubaug.  It began shooting its fiery projectiles at the tar-covered monster, keeping it from moving back into the palace.  With each fire ball landed, the cirnubaug was pushed back closer and closer to the front door and towards the portico.  Just as the witcher was starting to feel hopeful, he noticed the ball of fire begin to dim and that its fiery projectiles were coming with less frequency and less force.  The cirnubaug was near the threshold of the door, but it was no longer be pushed back any further.  In fact, it appeared as if it moved slightly back toward the interior again.

 

That’s when the events seemed to slow down, everything moving in slow-motion for the witcher. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. His eyes shifted to his right to see Iorveth coming out from behind the column and running down the right side of the portico toward the front door, his long, curved knife in his right hand. He sprinted past the larger-than-life statues of the elven warriors of old, the tail of his crimson bandana flying behind him.

 

Geralt yelled, “Iorveth, no!”

 

But, it was too late. The elven commander leapt ten feet from the front door. He landed on the “back” of the cirnubaug, driving the blade of his knife deep into the pitch covered monster.  The momentum of the elf crashing into it caused the monster – with Iorveth stuck to its back – to stagger to the left. The elf kicked his legs out to the left, catching the door frame with the balls of his feet.  He then pushed backwards with all his strength. Geralt watched helplessly as Iorveth and the cirnubaug fell towards the portico floor. Geralt didn’t wait to see them hit the floor, instead, turning and diving towards the palace ground. 

 

As the cirnubaug landed, it triggered a dozen trip-wired traps.  Instantly, Fosfurite bombs shot toward the creature and the elf, exploding on and around them. Fosfurite bombs that burned hotter than anything the witcher knew of, the gel-like substance capable of burning through metal.  Bombs, whose components were so volatile, that he rarely, if ever, crafted them and absolutely refused to carry them on himself or in Roach’s saddlebags.  The witcher looked up to see blinding white light shining from the middle of the portico.  It was so bright that he was unable to look directly at it. He quickly ran to his right to the column where Iorveth had been hiding before.  He picked up a Fosfurite bomb in each hand and turned back toward the front doors. The light had diminished a bit, enough to see that while Iorveth had pretty much been vaporized, the cirnubaug was still moving, though just slightly. He threw the two bombs at the creature and then, immediately, picked up two more and threw them, as well.  As the creature burned in a bright white flame, Geralt did his best to see what was happening.  He still couldn’t look directly at the light, but he shielded his eyes with his hand so that he could look a few feet above the light.  He saw what appeared to be thick, black ash floating upward, and as it continued to drift higher, the ash just seemed to eventually disintegrate and disappear.

 

 After a couple of minutes, the flame subsided, and the witcher limped toward the area of the portico located just in front of the palace doors. There was a hole in the white marble, nearly two feet deep in some spots and roughly ten feet in diameter.  The nearby doors and columns were damaged as well.  But nothing remained of the cirnubaug. And nothing remained of Iorveth either – not a stitch of his clothing or even the blade from his knife. The witcher sighed deeply and closed his eyes as he remembered the last actions of the elven freedom fighter.  He swore that, as he’d watched Iorveth and the cirnubaug fall downward toward their destruction, he’d seen Iorveth’s hideous smile plastered across his face. He kept his eyes closed for a few more moments, just remembering his friend’s scarred smile, remembering the remorse that was clearly evident in both his voice and his haunted eyes in their last conversations, remembering the mournful dirge that he’d played on his flute just last night. Geralt shook his head at the realization that he considered Iorveth a friend.  He wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened, but he had no doubt of that fact now.  Eventually, the witcher opened his eyes once more.

 

            “Damn it,” the witcher stated simply and full of sadness.

 

He stood there a moment longer, staring down at the portico, but, then, he peered over his shoulder and noticed the dark mist fading quickly from the sky above. As he turned his back to the front doors, his eyes scanned downward, taking in the palace grounds below him as it was slowly bathed in the rays from the morning sun.  The witcher limped down the steps of the portico towards the large fountain and out of the shadow of the palace. He turned around and looked up towards the sun that had just emerged over the tallest peaks of the Blue Mountains. He closed his eyes and held his hands open, his arms slightly out to his sides. He stood there, silent and still, letting the sun warm his face and body, chasing away the cold and the bitter despair. After some time, the witcher dropped his arms back down to his sides and opened his eyes. As he looked back up toward the portico, he whispered to himself.

 

“May Essea keep you, Iorveth. May he keep you.”

 

oOo

 

            Evie came awake suddenly in the dark cavern.  She reached her hand out to her side but couldn’t feel Geralt kneeling next to her. 

 

            “Damn it,” she said under her breath.  And then she realized that, after less than two weeks, she was already picking up some of his more common sayings.  She’d also caught herself saying “Swell” multiple times in the last few days. That actually made her smile, until she remembered the matter at hand.

 

            She scrambled to her feet and moved over to Geralt’s fire.  She pulled the knife from the scabbard on her thigh and stirred up and blew on the embers within.  Slowly, the fire grew enough that she could see her surroundings.  She grabbed the torch that Geralt had laid out for her the previous evening and lit it in the fire.  She slowly and carefully made her way back to where Lydial and Barcain were sleeping.  She knelt down and shook them both by their shoulders.

 

            “Wake up,” she hissed at them.

 

            They both woke instantly. 

 

            “What is it, Evangeline?”

 

            “Geralt’s gone,” she said. 

 

            “All right. Let’s go down,” replied Barcain.

 

            But, Evie didn’t wait for them.  As fast as she could, she exited the cavern and walked out into the woods.  From the light of her torch, she could still see Roach hobbled nearby.  She immediately started running towards the palace grounds.  Fifteen minutes later, sweating and out of breath, Evie stood in front of the closed, palace gates.  She could tell that dawn was approaching because when she looked away from the palace grounds, her eyes could pick up the ambient light in the sky.  But, then, she turned back and faced the gates, shrouded in the dark fog.  And she waited.

 

oOo

 

            Geralt sat on the palace ground, leaning back against the edge of the large fountain, with his saddle bags next to him.  He’d taken a shot of White Honey in order to clear the effects of the witcher elixirs he’d consumed less than half an hour before.  Now that the sun was up, he definitely wanted to neutralize the Cat potion.  Immediately after taking the White Honey, he downed a healing potion for his ankle. He looked up through the front doors of the palace to see the ball of fire still floating in the foyer.  He’d seen it earlier, but since it didn’t seem to be moving – either to flee or to attack – Geralt decided that he’d take care of his ankle before approaching it.  The witcher slowly got to his feet and limped up the steps towards the foyer.  He stopped as he reached the front doors with his hands empty of any weapons.  He looked at the ball of light.  He didn’t know why, but he got the sense that it was waiting on him.  He finally broke the silence.

 

            “I don’t know what you are – though, I’ve got a good idea.  I’d like to help you,” the witcher stated.

 

            After a moment, the glowing ball began to slowly float upwards towards the third floor.

 

            “Well, it didn’t scream or attack, so I guess that’s a ‘yes,’” Geralt said to himself before ascending the stairs to his right.

 

            When the witcher arrived at the third-floor landing, he noticed the ball was there, apparently waiting on him.  Geralt looked around.  With the sun now up and shining through the plate glass windows and the other windows located around the palace, he could easily see the damage done to the third-floor hallway. Shattered glass, sticky pitch, and scorch marks were everywhere.  Combined with the damage that was done to the portico, he knew that if Queen Enid decided to charge him for all the damages, then he wouldn’t end up with a single crown left over from the contract. But, the witcher just shrugged at that thought as he watched the floating fire-ball slowly move down the corridor towards the lab. Once it reached the door, it vanished.  Geralt assumed that it was now simply on the other side.  Upon reaching the door himself, he exhaled deeply and reached out for the handle.  He turned it but paused before pushing the door open.  He was very much dreading what he thought he’d find on the other side.  He then swallowed, opened the door, and stepped into the lab.

 

oOo

 

A small crowd – pretty much the entire Aen Seidhe community - was waiting for the witcher just outside of the palace gates. In the last half hour, the emotions in the group had run the gamut.  Initially, there was a mixture of hope and worry.  But the longer that the wait continued, the more that the hope began to vanish and the worry turned to fear. As they heard the sounds of glass shattering and exploding bombs, the fear became full-blown panic. And, then, finally, when the fog began to lift, replaced with the light and warmth of the sun, the sense of hope and anticipation returned in full force.  They all expected the witcher to soon show himself, to announce the contract complete. But, five, then ten, then twenty minutes passed without any sight of him.  Eventually, Evie, Barcain, Lydial and a few others discussed going in after him.  Evie would have already entered the palace grounds to search for the witcher except for the fact that her brother and grandmother were physically restraining her.  Finally, the palace gate opened up, and the Butcher of Blaviken walked out. Evie was about to rush into his arms until she saw his face. To anyone else, he probably didn’t look all that different than he normally did.  But, she was starting to understand the subtle nuances of Geralt of Rivia, and she could easily see the rage in his features.  As he walked up to Queen Enid and Rat-face, the rest of the Aen Seidhe crowded around them.

 

            “As you can see, I’ve dealt with the black fog.  However, there’s something else inside – _on the third floor_.  If you want it gone, then I need the both of you,” he said in a cold growl while pointing at the two of them. “And Nuremel, too.” 

 

He then turned to the rest of the crowd.

 

“I’ll also need anyone who… _was_ …a mother at some point.”

 

            Evie immediately stepped forward.  “I’ll help – whatever you need.”

 

            Geralt briefly had a look of confusion and surprise on his face, but it was quickly replaced with anger again.

 

“Very well. Let’s go,” he commanded as he turned and began walking back towards the palace.

 

“I don’t take orders from a vatt’ghern, and I certainly won’t be going in there with you.”

 

Geralt stopped and turned around.  He didn’t even have to ask who’d said it.  He looked directly at Rat-face and nodded his head.

 

“You know what? You’re right.  I’ve got a better idea.  I think the entire community needs to come up the third floor to see just what its leaders have been doing.”

 

Geralt suddenly saw the normally snide look leave the Rat’s face to be replaced with fear.

 

“I forbid it,” stated Queen Enid.  Though she did not speak loudly, her voice held authority, and everyone clearly heard her.   Everyone’s eyes then automatically shifted toward the witcher.

 

“Is that right?” responded the White Wolf. “Well, I could demand it – because I know that you desperately want what’s in there.  And you know you can’t defeat what’s guarding them. Only I can get rid of it.” He had the slightest of smiles on his face, but it was anything but friendly.

 

Queen Enid, carrying herself with the grace that fit her station, slowly walked away from the crowd and towards the palace gates.  She then turned and faced the witcher.

 

“A word…in private, Gwynbleidd?” she asked.

 

As Geralt approached her, he noticed that she was smiling – a smile that looked very similar to the one she’d just received from him.

 

“You’re in over your head, Witcher. You see, knowledge is power, and I _know_ you.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

 “Indeed. You do realize that I have a long history with several members of your little _harem_ , and every time anyone of them ever spoke about you, I listened. I listened to what was said and to what wasn’t.  So, I have your measure, Witcher, and I know your weakness.”

 

Geralt didn’t say anything, but inside he cursed.  She’d apparently called his bluff.

 

The sorceress smiled. “Oh, yes. Your tender heart towards the innocent and helpless. So, I know you want to save what’s in the lab as much as I do.  And you know that they are only being sustained by my magic.  Without me, they will all perish, and…I don’t give them much longer.  So, it appears that we are at a standstill.”

 

  After a moment, the witcher spoke. “Fine.  It’ll get out anyway.  They’ll all know what you’ve done…after I tell them.”

 

“Is that so?” The beautiful sorceress looked up at the blue skies and then back down at the monster-slayer. “How long do you plan to stay with us, Geralt…here in our little community? I doubt for much longer. Again, I know you.  You don’t stay anywhere for long. And, after you leave, it would be _such_ a shame if anything happened to little Evie’s family. I know that she would be so heartbroken. But, that happens. There are so many dangers here in these mountains.”

 

The witcher clenched his jaws tightly but didn’t reply.  At that point, he didn’t know what he would say if he did open his mouth. He also knew he could strike down the witch right then and there before she even had a chance to utter a single spell. But, he also knew that there’d be deep and multiple repercussions if he did so – especially to innocent lives.

 

Queen Enid continued. “Regardless, even if they do find out our little secret, in time, when they all see that what I’ve done was necessary and that I helped save our race, they’ll understand it and even appreciate it. They’ll understand that sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the betterment of society.”

 

The witcher shook his head. “Tell that to Chiesa.  It’s easy to spout that drivel until it’s _you_ that’s the sacrifice.”

 

“Please. Chiesa is an Essean.  She knows well the honor of the sacrificial life.”

 

“That is some _seriously_ twisted logic.  There’s only honor if the sacrifice is voluntary, which it wasn’t.”

 

Francesca Findabair shook her head, a look of mock pity on her face.

 

“I envy you, Vatt’ghern, with your simple life and your naïve ideals. Oh, yes, I can see the contempt in your eyes, the judgment you have for me, but you’ve never sat on my throne.  You’ve never had the fate of an entire race in your hands.  You’ve never felt the weight of that responsibility.  Until you’ve held a position of authority, you’ll never understand. So, spare me _your_ drivel and go back to your insignificant life.”

 

The two stared at each for several moments before the witcher finally said, “You know what? That’s a great idea.  So, let’s just get this over with. But, we’re going to need Rat-face and Nuremel.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

A cruel smirk crossed his face. “You know, I would explain it to you, but it’s _beneath_ you.  Just an _insignificant_ , little curse for a _simple_ , little witcher. Too simple for you to even understand.  So, you’ll just have to trust me.” 

 

He then turned and walked over to Evie and whispered in her ear.  After a moment, she stepped back, looked him in the eye, and nodded.  They, then, began walking towards the palace.

 

oOo

 

                Evie gasped when she saw the damage to the portico.  She turned to Geralt, but he just whispered, “Later,” so she nodded her head.

 

            She and Geralt were intentionaly walking behind the three Aen Seidhe. 

 

            As they all started up the first staircase, Rat-face turned to look behind them.

 

            “Why are we leading? You’re the _professional_ ,” he spat with contempt.

 

            “You know where the lab is. You don’t need me to lead.  And you’re right - I am a professional, which means I know a monster when I see it. I’d rather have a Nilfgaardian at my back than you, Rat-face.”

 

            Before he could retort, his queen beat him to it. “Just shut your mouth, Allendor. You’re making this more difficult for everyone.”

 

            There was venom in his eyes, but he simply stated, “Yes, Your Highness.”

 

            As hard as she was trying not to be, Evie was absolutely enthralled as she walked through the palace.  Her eyes were darting from the paintings on the walls, to the hanging tapestries, to the images in the stain-glassed windows, to the suits of armor lining the staircases and hallways. She was soaking in all of the history. The only other time she’d been inside these walls was the day before.  And, obviously, it had been black as night then, and she’d had other things on her mind.  In all the years of visiting her Nain, Evie had never been allowed into the palace.  Half-breed “mutts” like her never would have been invited in.  In fact, it wasn’t until her last visit to her grandmother – after her grandmother was living near the armory, that she’d ever even been allowed into the palace grounds.  But, now, walking through the Aen Seidhe palace in the light of day, the historian in her was definitely thrilled.  But, she knew that they were still on a mission – Geralt had made it clear that there might still be danger – so she was doing her best to temper her academic enthusiasm and focus on the task at hand.  If she needed a reminder of the gravity of the situation, seeing all of the damage on the third floor drove the point home.  At that point, no one, not even Rat-face, was making any comments about anything.  The closer they came to the door of the third-floor lab, the more tense everyone seemed to become.

 

            As they reached the closed door, they all naturally stepped aside for Geralt.  Evie felt him grab her by the hand and lead her forward, but she noticed that he made sure that he was facing the three Aen Seidhe the entire time. 

 

She was standing directly in front of the door, with Geralt behind her. She heard him address the three elves, “Don’t do anything that I don’t tell you to do. Got it?”

 

Nuremel suddenly spoke up. “Are you sure this is safe?”

 

            “It will be as long as you do exactly as I say. Understood?”

 

            The elf nodded back.

 

            The witcher then spoke over his shoulder to Evie. “Open the door slowly, and walk in slowly.”

 

            Evie reached forward and opened the wooden door, and just like before, it squeaked on its hinges.  She stepped into the lab and immediately noticed the floating ball of light in the middle of the room. However, she also noticed that the fiery flames that had been surrounding it the first time she’d seen it looked a bit muted.

 

            She suddenly felt jostled from behind, and she turned to see that Geralt was walking in backwards followed by the three elves.  She quickly turned back to face the ball and noticed that, upon the elves entering the room, the fire surrounding it grew brighter and hotter. She took note to remember that fact. Then, she heard Geralt’s voice.

 

            “You two stay right there and don’t move. Don’t do anything.  Evie, _Your Highness_ , follow me.”

 

            He then took the lead, walking sideways, never fully taking his eyes off the elves. Evie was following him but, then, her eyes skipped past him to see where he was leading her.  And she gasped at what she saw.  Behind a glowing magical barrier was a female elf laid out on a table. She was completely nude and was missing parts of her body – her left arm from the elbow down, her right foot, a few fingers from her right hand.  She also had a eighteen inch incision that ran from her sternum down to just above her pubis. There were two other long incisions, at the top and bottom of the vertical incision, that ran perpendicular to it.  It looked as if the body had two flaps on its abdomen that could be opened and closed like cabinet doors. She had an assortment of tubes running from multiple parts of her body, all connected to machines that Evie had never seen before. She assumed that the machines were all magical. Not only was there some kind of barrier surrounding the elf, the table, and all of the machines, but it also appeared, to Evie, as if there was some kind of glow surrounding the elf, herself.

 

            Finally, the three of them and the fiery ball were all positioned in front of the mutilated elf.

 

            “Geralt?” Evie sobbed. “Chiesa?”

 

            He nodded. Then, he spoke, the rage in his voice unmistakable.

 

            “Just so that we’re all clear. This floating ball is a wraith, of sorts. It contains all of the souls of all of the fetuses that have died during your experiments, and I don’t need to ask how many there were.  I can see how many still-living fetuses there are in the jars, and I have a good estimate of how long Chiesa’s been missing. So, I can do the math. And I don’t even want to know how you chose to dispose of those that died. That would…you now what? Let’s just move on. I can’t speak for the cluster of souls, but, personally, I’d like nothing more than to bleed all three of you pieces of shit out.  That’s what you deserve. However, the souls are, apparently, willing to forgive. I think what they want more than anything else is to simply preserve life. They want to preserve the lives that are in those jars, and we all know that we, unfortunately, need you” - at this point he nodded at Francesca - “to do so. But, they also want to make sure that this horror-show ends, which means giving Chiesa a proper burial so that you sick…deviants can’t keep extracting her eggs.  That’s the first step in sending the souls on. I’ll get to steps two and three after we’ve taken care of that.”

 

            He then turned to face the queen. “I could’ve deactivated your barrier with a dimeritium bomb, but I didn’t want to risk interfering with the magic on the jars.  So, I need you to lower the barrier. Now.”

 

            Queen Enid started chanting a complicated incantation and waving her hands about.  While she was doing this, Geralt pulled a metal bowl from inside his armor.  He stepped towards Evie, who was visibly trembling, her eyes very wet.

 

            “I need your tears.”

 

            “What?”

 

            “I need the tears of a grieving mother. The tears…have to come from you remembering your child…Do you think you can do that?”

 

            Immediately, Evie started bawling.  Geralt put the bowl in her hands. 

 

            “Baby, don’t wipe your eyes, okay?  Let the tears fall straight into the bowl.”

 

            Evie couldn’t answer. She turned away from the others so that they couldn’t see her grieve, and she just continued crying, tears streaming down her face.  The sobs were wracking her body, making her shoulders shake.

 

            Geralt turned back toward the others. He was doing his best to control his breathing, but the fury inside of him was about to consume him.  It was taking everything in him not to draw his sword and strike them all down. He looked at Chiesa to see that the barrier was down and that Francesca had her hands about six inches above the body, moving them back and forth from her head to her feet.  Eventually, Francesca stopped, lowered her hands to her side and stepped away from the body.  The witcher didn’t need to bother with checking Chiesa’s pulse.  He could hear that her heart had stopped.  He then nodded at the sorceress.

 

            “Okay. Now, remove the tubes and find a sheet or shroud and wrap her in it.”

 

            The witcher stood beside Evie while Francesca was wrapping Chiesa’s corpse. Evie was still crying but no longer sobbing.  He reached up and put his hand on her shoulder, caressing her tenderly, but still not taking his eyes off the others. Once, the sorceress finished preparing the body, Geralt spoke to Rat-face and Nuremel.

 

“Pick her up, gently. We’re going to bury her in the courtyard.”

 

            Rat-face began to protest, until the ball of fire lit up brightly, flames igniting around it.

 

            “I told you that you’d live if you do exactly as I say…but I actually hope you don’t.  I’d love to see them fry your ass.”

 

            That shut Rat-face up, and he and Nuremel grabbed the corpse and began carrying it out of the lab.

 

            “And I’d recommend that you give her the utmost respect,” the witcher advised as they walked out the door, with the ball of fire right behind them.

 

            They all eventually made it down to the courtyard.  Evie was holding the bowl with her tears in front of her. Once they had arrived, Geralt spoke again to the two male elves.

 

            “Go find two shovels.  You’re going to dig her grave.”

 

            He could see that Rat-face wanted to protest, but Nuremel just nodded his head and left the courtyard.  Shortly thereafter, Rat-face followed him.

 

            “And you,” said Geralt, looking at Queen Enid. “I need you to find a censer and some incense.”

 

oOo

 

            Two hours later, Chiesa was finally buried.  The other three stood at a distance, but Geralt, Evie and the cluster of souls stood at the gravesite. 

 

            Geralt turned to Evie. “Do you want to say anything?”

 

            Evie nodded her head.

 

“Chiesa, I didn’t know you, but you were obviously an elf of great strength and conviction.  And, you clearly loved Essea…as evidenced by your desire to obey him so.  I hope that you are at peace and that you will be with your children soon. May Essea keep you and them.”

 

            Geralt didn’t think he could add anything to that so he didn’t.  He turned and spoke to the three Aen Seidhe elves.

 

“Okay. Step one was the long part.  The next two will be quick.”

 

He pulled out a censer that Francesca had found for him.

 

“Breaking curses requires sacrifices and involves rituals.  Step two is that we need to burn the tears of a grieving mother. That’s what the censer is for.”

 

He then lit the tear-soaked incense within the censer. He had poured Evie’s tears over the incense as soon as the queen had brought it to him two hours previously. As it began to smoke, he started to slowly walk the perimeter of Chiesa’s grave, the cluster of souls floating above it.  


“May these tears of grief bring you peace. They are a sign of a mother’s love. May these tears of grief bring you peace. They are a sign of a mother’s love…” 

 

The witcher continued to walk around the grave, repeating himself for several minutes. Eventually, he walked over to the three elves.

 

“Step three involves you two.”

 

 Geralt stared at the two male elves.  As obstinate as Rat-face still appeared, Nuremel looked just as broken.

 

            “What do we have to do?” Nuremel asked.

 

            “Typically, breaking a curse like this requires blood, meaning your life.” The elf just nodded. “However, I believe that they are willing to pass on through another means. That said, it may be an even more difficult sacrifice than the first.  It’s the sacrifice of your pride.  Just ask them for forgiveness, with a genuinely contrite heart.”

 

Nuremel looked at the witcher in surprise.  The witcher nodded back.

 

            Nuremel slowly approached the cluster of souls, which was still hovering above Chiesa’s grave.  He knelt down on both knees and lowered his head. Evie could see that he was speaking but she couldn’t hear his words. Eventually, he raised his head and looked at the floating ball in front of him. After a minute of nothing happening, Nuremel looked over at the witcher with a confused face.

 

            “Is that all?”

 

            “Looks like it.  I’d say you’re good. You’re up, Rat-face.”

 

            The white-haired elf tentatively walked towards the grave.  As he stood there awkwardly, Evie reached out and grabbed the witcher’s hand. While he did squeeze her hand back, he didn’t turn to look at her, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him. They watched as the elf hesitantly knelt before the grave.  He lowered his head and clasped his hands in front of him. Evie saw him moving his lips. When he finished, he slowly raised his head and looked at the cluster of souls in front of him. As Evie watched him turn his head towards them, with a small smile on his face, a ball of fire suddenly shot straight into his body, and then another, then a third and fourth. Evie jumped at the sight and then turned her head away.

 

Eventually, after Rat-faces’ screams had ceased, she looked up at Geralt.  He had a completely unreadable expression on his face, but his eyes still hadn’t left the smoldering corpse. Then, his eyes shifted to his left. Evie felt him squeeze her hand so she looked, too.  She noticed the flames around the cluster of souls completely extinguish. And, then, with a sudden pop, it vanished.

 

            “Looks like they weren’t convinced of his…sincerity,” commented Evie.

 

“Yeah. Who could’ve guessed? Rat-face didn’t have a broken and contrite heart, after all.”

 

            The witcher then turned to Francesca, who had been staring at the scene, as well.

 

            “Too bad your magic is still needed.  Cause I _really_ would have liked to have seen you on your knees.  I have no doubt how that would have ended.”

 

            The sorceress smiled at the witcher. “Yes, I’m sure you _would_ like to see me on my knees.”

 

Then, her eyes moved towards Evie and connected with hers, and her smile widened.  She then looked back at the witcher. 

 

“But, that won’t happen…ever.  I do so love my magic.”

 

She laughed lightly, as if she had absolutely no cares in the world.

 

oOo

 

            Evie stood at the entrance of the large cavern, the same large cavern where she’d slept the night before. It looked drastically different in the light of day. Through the half dozen holes in the ceiling of the cavern, bright beams of light shone down and illuminated the cavern floor. Evie thought it was beautiful.  To her, they looked like waterfalls, except that they were composed of rays of sunlight instead of drops of water. Her eyes scanned the cavern back and forth until she found what she was searching for. On the far side of the cave, near one of the “waterfalls” of illumination, she saw her witcher.  He was on his knees in meditation, several feet outside of the direct sunlight. He was just close enough to the light, though, that he wasn’t completely in the shadows, just close enough that she had been able to locate him, to see his face.

 

              Evie knew something was wrong. She had sensed it in the courtyard.  And as they were walking down the steps of the portico, Geralt had informed her that he couldn’t remain there, in the palace grounds, a minute longer.  He didn’t want to be anywhere near the sorceress or her palace, and he had left immediately. She had stayed a short while, just to let Lydial and Barcain know that she was okay and to answer some of their questions, and then she’d come looking for him.

 

            She started walking slowly towards the witcher. When she was a good thirty feet away, she saw him open his eyes, and she stopped. They were both still – her standing, him kneeling – for several seconds, just staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, she noticed a slight nod of the witcher’s head, and she starting walking towards him again. As she walked, she noticed that his eyes were on her the entire time. She passed through the “waterfall” of sunlight and then took a final few steps until she was standing before him. And then she knelt.

 

            “Hi,” he said, but there was no smile on his face.

 

            Evie grinned at his greeting.

 

“Hi, yourself,” she said back.

 

            She then noticed that Geralt couldn’t maintain eye contact with her. It seemed that he was trying to, but he couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a second before he’d have to look away.

 

            “Geralt, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

 

            The monster-slayer slowly shook his head.

 

            “I’m here for you. I’ll listen if you want to talk about it.”

 

            A small, sad smile crossed the witcher’s face, but his head was slightly lowered, eyes searching the cavern floor.

 

            “Okay,” he said as he nodded his head. To Evie, it seemed that he was talking to himself more than to her. He then raised his head, his eyes connecting with hers.

 

            “Do you remember, two days ago, I told you that I sensed that I had a darkness in me?” 

 

            She nodded.

 

            “I was wrong.  I think I know what it actually is now.”  But, he didn’t continue. Evie saw him swallow.

 

            “Yes?” she prompted.

 

            Geralt looked upward and exhaled deeply. “Can you remember how being in that palace made you feel?”

 

            She nodded. “It was awful. I felt hopeless and full of despair and just…ugly inside.”

 

            “Yeah.  And you were never even in its presence.  Trust me, it was worse the nearer it was.”

 

            “Okay?” She still wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

 

            “But, if I’m honest…while I could sense it, it just didn’t affect me much.” Then, he paused. “Cause that’s what I feel every day.”

 

            “What are trying to say, Geralt?”

 

            He looked her in the eyes. “What I’ve got inside, Evie…is pure evil. I know that now, after today. The same thing that brought that cirnubaug forth lives inside of me.”   

 

            Evie knew that there was no sense arguing with him so she didn’t.  She just reached forward and touched his face with her hand.

 

            “Okay,” she stated simply. “Even so, I’m still here for you.”

 

            “How can you say that? Do you want to _know_ just how evil I am, Evie?”

 

            She swallowed but still said, “Okay. Tell me.”

 

            Geralt shook his head. “I wanted to butcher all three of those…elves in the courtyard.”

 

            Evie sighed. “Geralt, that doesn’t make you evil. That makes you normal. Hell, after what I saw in that lab, I wanted all three of them burnt to a crisp, too. I wanted them to pay for what they’d done.”

 

            He shook his head again. “It was more than just wanting justice, Evie. When I watched those souls forgive Nuremel, I was angry – at them. Even though, really, I had no right to be. If the souls were willing to forgive, how was that any business of mine?  And when I watched Rat-face burn, what I was feeling wasn’t the satisfaction of justice being done.  You know what I felt? Jealousy, envy.  Cause _I_ wanted to be the one that made him burn.  I wanted to gut that Rat-faced son-of-a-bitch and watch him bleed out. And I still do.”

 

 The witcher was looking into her eyes now, waiting for her response, just waiting for her to get up and run screaming out of the cave and away from the monster that he was. Never to return. After several long moments, she finally responded.

 

            “Okay,” she said nodding her head.  “The darkness that’s in you _may be_ pure evil…but, Geralt, listen to me closely, that does not mean that _you_ are pure evil. There is a big difference.  I saw the rage that was on your face when you came out of the palace this morning – the _righteous_ rage after seeing the atrocity that had taken place in that lab.  A purely evil man wouldn’t have even cared.  Hell, a purely evil man wouldn’t even care if he was purely evil. So…if you can’t see that difference, the difference between an utterly evil cirnubaug and the man – flawed that he may be - that’s in front of me right now, then…you’re simply not using the logical, rational part of that brain of yours – the part that you always say you want to use.”

 

By the time she finished, she was speaking with a deep conviction in her voice.  After a pause, she continued in a softer tone.

 

“It sounds like the evil that’s inside of you wants to convince you that you’re nothing but rotten, to make you believe that you’re worthless. And do you know why? So that you’ll stop fighting it.  So that it can then reign free. But, no matter how much it beats you up and makes you doubt yourself, and trust me, in the last week, I’ve seen just how much it does…despite that, you’re still fighting it.  The fact that you’re talking to me about it right now and that it obviously upsets you so is proof that you’re fighting it.  And that’s one of the many things that draws me to you. That you never stop fighting it.”

 

            Then, the smallest of smiles crossed Evie’s face.  

 

“And, you know what? So what? Even if a part of you is pure evil, so what?” 

 

            “So what?” the witcher asked, his brows furrowed.

 

            “Yes.  You’ve already told me that you believe God has put his goodness inside of you in order to fight it, right?” 

 

The witcher nodded. 

 

“Okay, then.  Then, this…revelation that you have pure evil in you should just make you grateful.”

 

            At that the monster-slayer almost laughed. “What? Grateful?”

 

            Evie looked at the witcher for several moments.

 

“If you’re not hungry, and someone offers you a meal, you _may be_ grateful for their kindness, but probably not too much.  But, if you haven’t eaten in weeks, and the hunger inside of you is consuming you…your awareness of it is at the forefront of your mind at all times…if it’s all you can think about…and, _then_ , someone offers you that same meal…just how grateful for their kindness would you be then?  I’d say very.”

 

            Evie watched Geralt’s face as he was staring back at her, but she couldn’t really discern what she was seeing in his eyes.  Finally, she saw the faintest of smiles come to his face.

 

            “So, you’re saying…that I should actually be _thankful_ that in the last few days I have become more and more aware of the dark and evil parts inside of me.  Because that knowledge, then, makes me - or, at least, should make me - more grateful to God for showing me favor, for the fact that he has placed his goodness in me in order to fight it?” 

 

He and Evie looked at each other for a moment. Then, he nodded his head.

 

“That actually makes some sense.”

 

            Evie smiled back at him. “Yeah. A wise man once told me that more logic never hurt anyone.”

 

She looked at the witcher, who had a strange look on his face.

 

            “Thank you, Evie.” And then he pulled her into a hug.

 

oOo

 

_Vizima_

 

            “What news, Malek?” asked Emperor Emhyr.

 

            “I have received word that Miss VanderBosch is currently at the elven palace in the Blue Mountains east of Dol Blathanna.

 

            Though he didn’t show it, the emperor was filled with hope and excitement from hearing that proclamation.

 

            “Your plan?”

 

            “We have a large battalion of men in Vengerberg.  I will have the sorceresses teleport me and a few of my men there.  From there, a hard, single-day’s ride should then allow us to reach our objective.  I am unsure if the Aen Seidhe will feel compelled to protect her or not. Regardless, I estimate that fifty soldiers will be enough.”

 

            The Emperor grabbed a parchment from his desk and wrote out several lines quickly.  He then rolled the parchment up, poured warm wax on the edge, and, as it began to cool, sealed it with his signet ring.

 

            “Make it a hundred,” ordered Emhyr as he handed Malek the parchment.

 

He then picked up a small bell and rang it.  Immediately, the Emperor’s chamberlain entered.

 

“Mererid, summon the sorceresses.”

 

           

 


	11. Chapter 11

_Vizima_

 

“I know it may beneath you, Malek, but could you deign to inform us why we are being relegated to nothing but glorified couriers, teleporting soldiers to and fro? Clearly, our powers could be put to greater use than just this,” spoke Philippa Eilhart with the customary condescension in her voice.

 

Malek, five of his men, and the three sorceresses were in a private chamber in the Vizima palace.  Malek and the sorceresses had just left the Emperor’s chambers, the three having received their orders to simply transport the six soldiers to Vengerberg.  They were told nothing else, which caused fury to boil within the sorceress from Montecalvo.  

 

A year had passed, and it still irked Philippa to no end to play the subservient role to both Emhyr and now to Malek.  To be given orders instead of to give them. To be forced to ask questions instead of answering them. This was all beneath her, especially given that she had more raw power and more experience than either of those men. The hundred-and-fifty-year-old sorceress was accustomed to being the one making the plans and giving directives. She decided, then and there, that she’d be damned if the turn of the calendar would still find her under any man’s authority. 

 

Malek truly didn’t mind being questioned by his immediate subordinates regarding his plans as long as it was done in the right manner.  As long as it was done respectfully and not in front of large groups. For that undermined authority and caused chaos. And that was unacceptable. There was a time and place for everything, including questioning a superior in order to understand better a mission’s details. But, in Malek’s mind, Philippa had just breached proper protocol.

 

He looked at his five men and made a motion with his head. They all immediately left the chamber.  Malek then turned to face Philippa. Despite her wearing high heels, he towered at least a foot above her.  His left hand rested on the pommel of his sword, located on his left hip.  His right hand dropped down and hung next to a knife strapped to his right thigh.  Though, to Fringilla’s eyes, it was the strangest knife she had ever seen. This wasn’t the first time that she had noticed it. The scabbard was not flat, as was the custom. It was rounded and a bit bulky, as if the blade inside was round-shaped, as well.  The handle of the knife was also quite unusual. Instead of the hilt running in line with the blade, this handle was connected to the metal portion of the weapon in a perpendicular manner.  Before she could ponder on the weapon further, her attention was brought back to the conversation by Malek’s voice.

 

“Miss Yennefer, Miss Vigo, if you could excuse us, please?  I believe that Miss Eilhart would like a word in private.”

 

The two sorceresses looked at Philippa. Her head never moved, facing straight ahead in Malek’s direction.  Yennefer and Fringilla simply turned and walked out the chamber’s door, shutting it behind them. As soon as the door closed, Malek spoke.

 

“Miss Eilhart, you seem to think that you have some standing within Emperor Emhyr’s court that gives you leave to question me.  I assure you, you do not. I can also assure you that whatever schemes you may have in mind with the Emperor, perhaps even becoming his consigliere, they will fail. He will never choose you over me.  He would never choose you, period. In fact, I think he may even trust you less than I do.”

 

“Oh, and what exactly have I done to cause so much distrust? As if you even know me, Malek.”

 

Malek smiled, but it was one that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“Just because you don’t know me doesn’t mean that I don’t know you. I know your favorite color is burgundy, that you like to sleep on your left side, that you prefer sexual relations with women, though you have no qualms about using sex as a tool of influence over either gender.  Your favorite meal is rack of lamb, the bloodier the better.  Oh, and you have…an affinity for owls.” With that, his smile grew just a fraction wider.

 

 “But, those are nothing but trivial facts regarding Philippa Eilhart, the Jewel of the Court of Tretogor. I know you had a hand in King Vizimir’s death, a king to whom you pledged loyalty.  I am also aware of your dealings at Loc Muinne. Therefore, I know you have no loyalty to the Empire.  You are loyal only to you. But, even if I didn’t know that, I still wouldn’t trust you.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

Philippa’s voice was cold. She had, in that moment, decided that she would one day kill Malek. She now needed to just start the planning.

 

“Indeed.  I wouldn’t trust you simply because you’re a magic user. It comes from chaos, and it is not natural. _You_ are not natural.”

 

Philippa sneered. “Magic is not natural to _you_. Therefore, I understand your suspicions. _Weak_ people always fear the more powerful. But that does not make magic evil or worthy of being vilified. In fact, I believe it is to be…praised…and, trust me, it is _quite_ natural to me.  Would you like to see?”

 

Malek’s hands grasped the pommel of his sword and the grip of his knife tightly, just waiting for Philippa to move. His eyes were completely focused on her hands. For several long seconds, neither moved or said anything. Finally, Malek broke the silence.

 

“Many years ago, there was a body ravaged in the streets of Maecht, where I happened to be staying at the time,” stated Malek, his eyes never leaving the sorceress’ hands. “Then, shortly afterwards, there was another.  The bodies were mutilated.  Torn to shreds, covered in blood, their throats ripped open.  As the corpses piled up, it became obvious that the culprit was not human.  A witcher was hired, who was able to track and kill the monster. A vampire, called…an Ekimmara, if I remember correctly.”

 

“Truly fascinating. Is there a point?”

 

“You believe that since magic is in your _nature_ , then that makes it _right_ and _good_.  Well, it’s in the nature of the Ekimmara to drink blood…to eat flesh…to mutilate bodies.  There are all types of _natural_ …abominations.”

 

With another smile, Malek stated, “I believe that ends our lesson.  You are dismissed, Miss Eilhart, and your services are no longer needed.  I shan’t trust your portal.”

oOo

           

_Blue Mountains_

 

Evie woke up to a completely black cavern, which confused her. It had been around noon when she had first laid down on a pallet. She knew she had been exhausted, but… just how long had she slept? After her talk with Geralt that morning, she suddenly found that couldn’t stop yawning, which was understandable.  She’d only gotten three hours of sleep the night before, mostly due to worry for her witcher.

 

Normally, she would have gotten up immediately to find him, but she already knew exactly where he was.  And that made her smile. She could feel his warm body behind her, and his breath on the back of her neck. His arm was wrapped over her, and she was clutching his ungloved-hand to her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d felt this safe…or content, which made her smile some more. She could definitely get used to waking up in his arms.

 

“Are you asleep?” she whispered.

 

“No,” he whispered back.

 

“ _Did_ you sleep?” she asked in a whisper again. 

 

She wasn’t sure why she was still whispering since she now knew he was awake, but it just seemed like the right thing to do.  It was as if talking in a normal voice would somehow break the intimacy, which she was loathe to do.

 

“No. But, I did meditate for a while. How are you feeling now? You were out for a long time.”

 

“How long?”

 

“I’m not sure exactly because I can’t see the moon in here, but I’d guess fourteen or fifteen hours.”

 

“Oh, my gosh.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s probably more sleep than you’ve had in the last three or four days combined.  It’s been a hectic few days.”

 

“Is this what your life is always like?” she asked, thinking she already knew the answer.

 

“Actually, no.”

 

“What?”

 

“Seriously. My life has gotten a lot crazier with you in it.  The Path is obviously a very dangerous road…and a pretty lonely one, as well. And, believe it or not, it can also be pretty boring.”

 

“Boring and witcher are not two words I’d ever associate together.”

 

“Well, it’s true.  It’s not that uncommon to go several weeks without finding a contract.  And those times can be pretty boring, just traveling from one small town to the next and, then, to the next.  Truth is - I consider three contracts in a month to be a pretty good month. Or, at least, nowadays it is. Forty, fifty years ago, there were monsters everywhere. But, now, the Path is a lot of down time interrupted by two or three days of contract-induced excitement.”

 

“Then, what do you do with all that free time? I can’t believe that you just sit around talking to Roach the entire time.”

 

The witcher smiled. “There actually is a lot of that. But, no, that’s not all.  Usually, I’ll train every day, do sword drills. That helps keep me physically and mentally fresh.  I’ll also tend to my swords and gear every day, too.  Even if they don’t need it, it’s a good habit to keep. I also enjoy, at night, pulling out my pipe and having a good smoke while gazing at the stars and…”  The witcher suddenly stopped talking.

 

“And…what?”

 

You know… just, uh, contemplating…well, stuff.”

 

Evie was no fool. The witcher was clearly hiding something.

 

“Stuff, huh? Just what kind of stuff do you think about?”

 

She heard the witcher let a frustrating sigh behind her.

 

“It’s okay, Butcher, you don’t have to tell me,” she said teasingly, a smile on her face. “I just thought we’d promised not to keep secrets from one another,” she continued in a mock-weepy voice. “But, it’s okay I understand.”

 

After several long seconds, the witcher growled, “Damn it. Fine.”

 

“Yay.” Evie said with a laugh.

 

“Just promise me you won’t laugh.”

 

“Well, I can’t promise you that.  What if you tell me - I don’t know - that you crochet pink booties for baby vampires? How could I not laugh at something like that?”

 

“Shows how much you know, Professor. There are no baby vampires. They’re all, like, a thousand years old.”

 

“You know what I mean.”  When he didn’t say anything, she said, “Okay, I promise I won’t laugh.”

 

The witcher let out a small sigh. “Well, I, uh…like to…dabble in poetry.”

 

She quickly turned her head, though she didn’t know why. She couldn’t see him in the dark. “Really?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Wha- uh, how?”

 

This was a side of the witcher she would have never guessed. Then again, the man was a century old with quite a bit of down time.  You’d figure that he’d have a hobby or two. But, poetry?

 

He let out another long sigh. “Hell, I don’t know. Dandelion, I guess.  I’ve been around him too long. He’s constantly writing lyrics to songs or crafting poems.  The annoying part is that he’s always doing it out loud. And, frankly…I don’t think he’s _that_ good.  A bit overrated. Anyway, one night, I was lying out under the stars and thought…how hard could it be? So, I came up with something. It wasn’t any good, or at least, I don’t think it was. But, I enjoyed the process.” 

 

“Yeah, what was so enjoyable?”

 

Evie had a smile on her face.  Her witcher, a poet. Who knew?

 

“Well, it’s challenging, and I guess I’ve always liked challenges. If you’re gonna be a witcher, you’d better. But…I think the main reason is because it allows me to create.” He then paused for a few seconds. “You know, my whole life – a witcher’s entire reason for being – revolves around killing. To destroy.  And, to be honest, I’m damn good at it. But, to actually _create_ something…that’s a lot more satisfying than killing. And, in some ways, a hell of lot harder. I’ve haven’t told you this, but I actually own a vineyard down in Toussaint.  Just acquired it recently. It’s crossed my mind to just hang up my swords and live there permanent.  Spend my days cultivating the land; growing grapevines, olive trees, plants and flowers and vegetables; producing wine.  I’m not sure why, but there’s just something about that – the prospect of _creating,_ producing something from the land _-_ that just appeals to me in a way killing never has. Maybe because I’d be, somehow…I don’t know, connecting to God?”

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, you know that I think a higher power – God – created all this, right?”

 

“I remember.”

 

“Well, I think of him as…the ‘Great Artist’…cause sometimes I’m absolutely amazed at what I see in this world. I’ve stood atop a peak in Ard Skellig, looking down into the Great Sea, getting lost in watching the waves crash into the cliff below. In Beauclair, I’ve sat next to the clearest, stillest lake at sunrise – it looked like a mirror.  And as the sun came up, seeing the orange and red and purple of the sky reflecting in the water.  It actually looked like there were two skies, two suns.  I’ve gazed in awe at the pristine, snow-covered, virgin fields of White Orchard. It’s as if creation, itself, is telling us about him. Showing us what an incredible artist he is. And that’s just the big stuff.  Think about all the tiniest of details that he thought of, too. Just think of us sapient beings and all the details that went into that creation.  He didn’t have to give us the ability to see colors, or to smell fragrances, like vanilla-” upon hearing that, Evie couldn’t help but smile “-or to taste all the flavors that he created, or to hear the birds sing their songs, or to give us the ability to make music, or to experience the feeling of soft lips on our cheek, or anything else.  He could have created a black and white, odorless, tasteless, monotone, dull, drab world.  But, he didn’t. Like I said, he’s an amazing creator.  And, I think that working at my vineyard would just, I don’t know, allow me to connect with him and his creation in a way that killing monsters never would.”

 

“You are a strange man, Geralt of Rivia,” she remarked with a smile.

 

If Evie could have seen him, she would have seen an amused look on his face. “Well, _I_ know that I am, but why do you say so?”

 

“Well, face it, Geralt…you are a cynic. You definitely see the tankard as half-empty as opposed to half-full.  So, for someone who is so quick to point out the evil and darkness found in humanity and routinely voices his view on the tragic, ironic, futility of life, it’s amazing that you are even capable, much less willing, to see the beauty in the world.”

 

Geralt slowly nodded his head. “Yeah. But…it’s just different. I don’t understand how everyone can’t see it. How can anyone lie out under a blanket of a million stars, or watch an enormous whale swim underneath them as they sail a boat off the coast of Spikeroog, or see a fifty-foot waterfall flowing into a crystal-clear river below, the water droplets producing a small rainbow on the surface, and not just be in _awe_ of his creation? I’d have to be blind not to see it.”

 

“Well, that may be what makes you different.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There are a lot of people in this world who just look.  In fact, I’d say most of us go through our entire lives just…simply looking.  But, we never truly see.  We never truly take in what’s right in front of us. To actually notice it, to appreciate it. I think it’s because most of the time we’re too focused on what we don’t have, instead of what we do…I think to truly see is a rare gift.” 

 

She then snuggled herself closer into the witcher and smiled. “All those places you mentioned – the mountain peaks, the still lakes, the snow-covered meadows…I’d like to visit them with you one day.”

 

“I think that I’d like that, too,” the witcher replied, squeezing her tighter.

 

“And you know, I know exactly what you mean about the joy of creating,” Evie continued.  “I’ve written several articles that have been published.  Even have a couple of books published as well – though, they’re strictly academic texts that only other academics read.  And like you, I just enjoy the process. Even if no one else ever read what I wrote, I’d still do it.  But, I really enjoy it when someone tells me that what I wrote was interesting or entertaining or thought-provoking.  When I’ve written something that someone else enjoys, it’s like you said…it’s as if I’ve somehow made the world a slightly better place, added to it somehow.”

 

“Yeah, well, _that_ I wouldn’t know about.  I’ve never shared my poems with anyone.”

 

“Well, then, Geralt…you _know_ what I’m gonna ask you next, right?”

 

“No way.  They’re…well, they’re not any good.” He’d been about to say that they were “private” but he realized that wasn’t a legitimate excuse…because he didn’t want to keep anything from this woman.

 

“Pleeeeaaaasse,” she asked in a silly tone.

 

“Fine. Okay,” he eventually said, in fake-resignation.

 

“Yay!” she said again. “Okay, I’m ready.”

 

“The poem’s title is… ‘Misery.’”

 

Suddenly, Geralt heard Evie snicker.

 

“What the hell? You’re laughing already?  I’ve only told you the title.”

 

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m not laughing.”

 

“Okay, you’re right, but come on, Geralt…you’ve got to admit, that’s funny.  I mean, really? ‘Misery?’ That’s just so… _you_.”

 

And then, she couldn’t hold back any more as she laughed out loud.  As much as he wanted to be angry with her, he loved that sound. He decided right then and there that he’d gladly be the object of her fun if he could just keep hearing her laugh with such unbridled joy.

 

“Do you also have one named, ‘Cynicism’ or what about, ‘Cursed’ or ‘Damn it?’” She couldn’t stop laughing now.

 

“Are you done?” he asked. He wasn’t about to admit now that he actually _did_ have a poem about a curse.

 

Evie was gasping. “Wait, one more. How about ‘Curmudgeon?’” She laughed a bit longer before finally saying, “Okay. Now, I’m done.” But she still continued to chuckle.

 

Geralt didn’t say anything. After a while longer, her laughter finally died down.

 

“You’re not going to let me hear it now, are you?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Yes, you will.” And he knew she was right.  He’d give in…eventually.

 

“Nope. You ruined your chance,” he stated gruffly.  But, she could sense the grin on his face.

 

She let out a small sigh.

 

“Alright, Witcher. I won’t press you…Now, let me up, please. With all that laughing…I nearly peed my pants.”

 

oOo

_Vengerberg_

            Malek sat at the head of a long table in the Nilfgaardian garrison’s headquarters. Around the table sat six Nilfgaardian officers of the local garrison, and five hand-picked men from his own special squad that he commanded and trained.  He was briefing them all on the upcoming mission. In front of each was a copy of the wanted poster for Professor Evangeline VanderBosch.

 

            “You will share this poster with all of your men. Ensure that they memorize her face in intimate detail…for she is _not_ to be harmed. If she is killed, then I will, subsequently, perform a summary execution on that individual and their entire chain of command for directly disobeying orders. For there will be order on this mission. Therefore, until we arrive at our objective, I’d recommend that when your men are not staring at her picture, then they’re closing their eyes and day-dreaming of her. I do hope that I am clear.”

 

Malek didn’t raise his voice nor pound his fist on the table nor stand and tower over the men. None of that was required. His presence alone was enough to intimidate.

 

            “Sir?” asked Karsten van Strichen, one of the local garrison commanders.

 

            “Yes, van Strichen?”

 

            “She looks, unfortunately, rather ordinary…common. Unless she wears her hair up so that we can see her ears…well, I would hate to lose my head if one of my men accidently mistakes her for an Aen Seidhe. Does she possess any distinguishing characteristics that I could pass along to my men?”

 

            “I wish that I could tell you that she has a peg leg or a succubus’ tail, but alas, no. Though, she may have something just as identifiable – a witcher. And one of some renown.”

 

            Another officer had his hand raised.

 

            “Yes, Perret?”

 

            “This vatt’ghern…how will we identify him?”

 

            “Well, if the cat eyes, twin swords on his back, and witcher medallion don’t clue you in, then look for his white hair and a long scar down his face.  I can’t imagine you’ll be able to find an Aen Seidhe matching that description.  He’ll also be the one shooting fire from his palm and wielding his sword with exceptional skill,” Malek added with a small smile.  “I’m _confident_ you and your men will be able to recognize him. Find him and you should be able to find Miss VanderBosch very nearby.”

 

“Sir, are we allowed to kill him?” asked another.

 

“Allowed? If necessary. He is aiding a known criminal. Able? Doubtful.  But, never fear, you are not called to kill him, or anyone else for that matter, even the Aen Seidhe. As far as I know, they have broken no laws. We are only truly interested in Miss VanderBosch, the individual accused of treason against the Empire.”

 

Unbeknownst to any of the men in the room, a common looking, grey owl was sitting serenely on the roof of the headquarters building, just above an open window.  As soon as Malek had finished giving his orders, the owl immediately flew away.

 

oOo

 

_Blue Mountains_

 

“Geralt, can I ask you a question?” Evie asked in between taking bites of bread and roasted meat.           

           

            “Of course,” the monster-slayer responded.

 

            The two were sitting side by side in front of a campfire, over which Geralt had just roasted a fowl that he’d killed earlier in the day.  The witcher had also brought in the saddles of their respective mounts, and they were using them to lean back on and relax. When Evie had returned from visiting nature, Geralt already had the fire going and was in the middle of preparing a late-night meal for her.

 

            “You mentioned that you had never faced a cirnubaug before.”

 

            “Uh huh.”

 

            “Well, have you ever come across a wraith like the one in the lab?”

 

            “No, not even close.”

 

            “What made it different?”

 

            “Well, I can tell you _how_ it was different, but I can’t really explain _why_ it was different.”

 

            “Okay.”

 

“Well, a wraith is the spirit - or soul - of a person who, for whatever reason, is stuck in this world after death. It could be because it holds great remorse or anger or sadness. But, I can’t fully explain how that happens.  I’ve got to believe that there a lot more people who die with remorse or sadness that _don’t_ turn into wraiths than actually do. So, I don’t know why some do and some don’t. It’s a bit of a mystery. But, regardless, in my experience, a wraith has _always_ only ever consisted of one soul.  I’ve never known multiple souls to ever cluster together like that.  And, I’ve also never known wraiths to be able to shoot fire or any other type of projectiles.” After a pause, he continued. “You know, if bestiaries were still produced, I could write a couple of entries on what I saw today.  I could be published, too.  Then, you’d have to start calling _me_ ‘Professor.’”

 

 

            “Right. Professor Geralt.” Evie smiled at that but then continued. “If you’ve never come across a cluster-souled wraith, then how did you know what rituals would allow it to move on?  Just an educated guess?”

 

            “No. It…communicated with me.”

 

            “It spoke to you?”

 

            “No, not really.  And here’s something else that made it different. I’ve come across some specters that can speak.   In fact, that’s not that unusual. But, this one didn’t speak. But, it _could_ send images into my mind. Almost, like, telepathy.”

 

            “Wow.  So, it showed what you needed to know?”

 

            “Yeah, but more than that. It showed me images of what had been going on in that lab. Things that they did to Chiesa’s body. Things they did to the fetuses’ bodies after they died.  Just dropped them in a bucket, like they were nothing but garbage.  I never saw where they took them, but I highly doubt they were given a proper burial.”

 

            After a moment, when Evie didn’t respond, Geralt looked over at her. She was just staring into the flames of the campfire, tears rolling down her face. He shifted his body over next to hers. As he put his arm around her, she leaned in to him, resting her head on his chest.

 

            “Sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned that. Do you want me to stop talking about it?”

 

            She shook her head and wiped the tears away with one hand.

 

“No, I’m still curious,” she answered. “If it showed you these images, then it must have been present when all that…evil was going on.  So, then, why didn’t it just burn up those three near the start, before so many others had died?”

 

            “The best I can guess is that the souls didn’t actually adapt – cluster together and, somehow, acquire their flame-throwing ability, until the cirnubaug appeared.  And I don’t think the cirnubaug manifested until recently, only until after dozens and dozens of the fetuses had died.”

 

            He felt her nod her head on his chest.

 

            “That elf, Iorveth, went in with you, didn’t he?”

 

            “Yeah. How’d you know?”

 

            “When we were all outside the gates, waiting for you, nobody could find him. And quite a few were looking for him. Apparently, he was a leader of some sort. A lot looked up to him.”

 

            Geralt then told her of Iorveth’s sacrifice with the cirnubaug and of him smiling as he fell to his death.

 

            “Smiling? Why do you think he was smiling?”

 

            Geralt sighed “He told me he was helping me as an act of penance. I think…I think he planned to die.”

 

            “Penance? For what?”

 

            “I don’t know for sure, but I think…for Chiesa. One of the images the souls showed me was of him. He was alone in the lab, down on his knees, just outside of the magical barrier protecting her. His head was bowed and…tears were streaming down his face. I’d never seen him like that. Ever. He looked…absolutely broken.  He was speaking to her, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Frankly, I’m glad that I couldn’t.  I don’t think I want to know exactly how he was involved. I’d rather remember him like he was at the end. Running down that portico…jumping on the cirnubaug’s back…that scarred smile on his face. That’s the elf I want to remember.”

 

            “It’s ironic,” Evie stated after a moment.

 

            “What is?”

 

            “If he was truly penitent, then the soul-cluster would have forgiven him, like they did with Nuremel.  His remorse could have absolved him. He wouldn’t have had to die.”

 

            Geralt was silent for a long time, then he shook his head. “I get the feeling he’s glad that it…resolved itself the way it did.”

 

            “Why so?”

 

            “Even if the souls had forgiven him, I don’t think that he ever would’ve forgiven himself.” 

 

            The witcher felt Evie nod her head slightly against his chest. “He was your friend?”

 

            “If you’d asked me two days ago, I’d have said no. But, yeah…I think he was.”

 

            “Then…I’m sorry for you, Geralt.” She put her arm around his waist and hugged him tightly.

 

oOo

 

_Vizima_

            “Bloody hell!” Philippa cursed. 

 

Yennefer had a slight smirk on her face, but Fringilla was stone-faced, as usual.  It had been years since she’d allowed anyone to discern her thoughts or emotions through her expressions. That had been a weakness.  One that she’d taken great pains and effort to rectify.   

 

            Philippa was standing in front of her megascope. For the third or fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, she had tried – and failed – to reach either Ida or Francesca.  Little did she know that Ida was dead and that Francesca’s megascope crystals – which she’d left inside the palace when she’d fled - had been damaged by the freezing cold temperatures brought on by the cirnubaug.

 

            “Very well.” Philippa then turned towards the others. “I will simply teleport to the palace to discuss matters with our sisters.”

 

            “You’re willing to draw Malek’s ire?” asked Yennefer, the small smile no longer on her face.

 

            “He has drawn my ire. His is but a trifle. Remember, magic, not Nilfgaard, is what’s important here and now, and whatever this historian possesses or knows, it’s in our best interest to obtain it first. Consequences be damned.” 

 

            Yennefer was starting to regret ever having listened to Philippa all those months ago in her cottage.  Regretted ever being pulled back into Philippa’s machinations.  That autumn morning, she had hoped that aligning herself with Philippa and the Empire would help give her a purpose, to help take her mind off of Ciri. She had hoped the purpose would be to avenge Rita’s death on the battlefield.  However, it became quickly clear that obtaining that revenge would be next to impossible. The Redanian military’s countermeasures against magic were simply too potent.  She soon discovered that she was more or less worthless on the field of battle against them. It appeared as if there would never again be a battle like that of Sodden Hill, with mages casting great waves of magic at their enemy.  The technology and science of the non-magic users was simply adapting and catching up to them.  If mages were to be productive members of society, she knew that they’d have to find other ways to do so besides simply being a powerful military tool in battle. Perhaps, magic users never should have been involved with war in the first place and should have focused their gifts in other areas like medicine, engineering, and agriculture. But, those thoughts were for another time.

 

The longer that Yennefer sat in the shadows doing nothing, the more the flame of revenge inside her began to fade. Especially when she realized she didn’t even truly know who was directly responsible for Rita’s death.  Oh, sure, she could say that it was the Redanian military.  But, that was simply too broad of a target.  Revenge needed a specific target – like Radovid, himself.  But, the more she thought about it, the less revenge interested her. And it was because revenge would not bring back the one thing in the world that she wanted the most – Ciri.

 

All she’d ever wanted in life was to be a mother, and she’d done everything she knew to do to cure her infertility. But, nothing had ever worked.  But, then fate intervened, putting little Ciri in her life. While Geralt and Ciri had formed a special bond, she knew that no one had ever loved Ciri like she had.  And even a year later, the pain lingered. At that point, she realized she had absolutely no desire to be involved in either Emhyr or Philippa’s plans anymore. Like her former lover, she’d never been truly interested in the slippery schemes found in royal courts or mage councils.  And now, she was interested in them even less.  At that point, all she wanted to do was return to her cottage on the outskirts of Vengerberg.  She looked at Fringilla but as usual could read nothing from her countenance.

 

oOo

 

_Blue Mountains_

            Evie was still tucked into the witcher’s side, watching the flames of the fire dance and flicker and the smoke rise up towards the ceiling of the cavern. It had been a brutally emotional day for her.  First, the crippling fear that she’d felt thinking that Geralt had been injured or killed; then seeing the horror of the third-floor lab, the sight bringing back her most painful memories; finally, watching Rat-face die in front of her. Despicable as he was, that wasn’t something that she’d wanted to see. She felt beaten up. But, lying next to Geralt, with her head on his chest, she could hear his heart beating and his very slows breaths, and that somehow comforted her, that he was next to her.  She felt safe with him. And, she realized she wanted him to know.

 

            “Geralt?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why haven’t you...why haven’t you asked me?”

 

After a moment, he asked, “About your child?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Evie, I want to know everything about you – your dreams and hopes…your nightmares and fears, your…best days and your worst memories. But, I…I want to be sensitive to your pain.  I figured you’d tell me in your time.”

 

“Well…I want you to know.”

 

“Okay,” he said with a nod. “Then…I’m here.”

 

She didn’t say a word for the longest time.  For so long, in fact, that Geralt thought she’d either changed her mind or fallen asleep. Finally, she spoke.

 

“I met Claude when I was twenty-four. I had just started working on my advanced degree in history at Oxenfurt Academy.  He was studying archeology so we had a few classes together. He and I and a few other students started up a study group pretty quickly that first term. We’d meet once or twice a week to go over notes, discuss lectures, review for exams. It kind of became a bit of a social club, as well.  Many nights, it seemed, we’d end up at The Alchemy or The Library downing pints and talking about everything _but_ history.  He was taken with me from the start. I mean, it was obvious.  But, I never felt that way for him.  He asked me out once, at the end of that first semester. And I hated to turn him down – I didn’t want to break his heart – but I had to be honest about my feelings, too.  He went home to visit his parents for winter break, and I was worried how he’d act when he returned. Afraid that he’d treat me differently.  That it’d be so awkward that our little group of friends would break up.  But, he didn’t.  He was the same old Claude. Kind and considerate. Always with a helping hand. Always the first to let you borrow his notes. But, every once in a while, I’d turn my head and catch him staring at me.  I could briefly see the hurt and…longing still there, but he always quickly smiled and covered up what he was feeling.

 

“Then, that next fall, Uncle Malek came to see me. He told me that Mum and Dad had been murdered two weeks prior.  We sat there at the kitchen table of my flat, him telling me details about the funeral and the investigation and such.  I don’t remember what he said, because I just started drifting off in my head.  I can remember thinking over and over, ‘I’m so alone. I’m so alone.’

 

“Claude was the best over the next few weeks.  A good friend.  Came by to check on me at all times.  Wouldn’t let me just stay locked up in my flat.  Even offered to travel all the way down to Vicovaro with me to visit my parents’ graves.

 

“One night, in my grief and loneliness and…selfishness, I turned to him. Not even thinking about what might happen.  Or just not caring.  Afterwards, he assumed we were a couple.  But, I still didn’t love him. And, I…I just felt so guilty…so guilty for just using him like that…for hurting him…again. But, again, he didn’t get angry or make a scene.  He just said that he understood, that he’d always be my friend.

 

“And then, I found out I was pregnant.  I can still remember the look on his face when I told him. His face lit up in the most joyful smile. But, I was anything but joyful. In fact, I was devastated. I remember saying over and over again, ‘I don’t want this, I don’t want this. I wish it would go away.’

 

“Claude came back later that day, with a cheap copper ring, got down on his knee, and proposed. I can still remember the look on his face then, too. This look of vulnerability that was part hope, part fear. He was a good man. The kindest man.  But, I didn’t love him.  But, I said yes, anyway…cause that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

 

“As the days and weeks went by, my heart changed. Not towards Claude, but towards our baby. I realized that I was carrying this little life inside of me. And that I wouldn’t be alone anymore. I would speak to him and sing to him, and Claude would, too. I got to know him, just based on him moving and kicking.  Got to know what melodies he liked the best, how he’d act differently based on the foods I ate. And I know that he got to know me, too. Knew the sound of my voice.

 

“And then one day, the contractions started. We were so full of excitement as we headed to the clinic. And I started the delivery process, but it wasn’t long before I knew something was wrong. My son…my little boy…was stillborn.

 

“The medic and nurse clipped the cord and cleaned him up. Washed all the blood from him, wrapped him in a blanket, and placed him in my arms. And even though my Julien was dead, I held him close, and kissed his forehead, and rocked him, sang to him, cried over him. And, then, later that day…Claude and I buried him.”

 

Evie sighed and was quiet for a while before finally continuing.

 

“I was so thankful to the medic and nurse. That they did what they did.  That they didn’t just take my son away from me. That they let me see him and say goodbye to him. But, afterwards, I felt so guilty.”

 

“Guilty, why?”

 

“Because of…of what I had said that first day. That I didn’t want him. That I wanted him to go away.” At that, Geralt heard Evie sob.

 

“Geralt…did I…did I curse my son?  Did he die because of me?” she asked as the tears fell.

 

The witcher held her tightly.

 

“No, Evie. No, you didn’t. That’s not how curses work. You didn’t curse your son.”

 

With that, the last of Evie’s resolve withered and she just bawled. She bawled, and the witcher held her close and just gently rocked her. He held her tightly, and his heart was breaking for her.  He wished that he knew what to do, what he could say to make it better.  But, he didn’t know. So, he just kept his mouth shut and held her.

 

After about ten minutes, he noticed that she’d finally settled down, that her breathing had returned to normal.

 

“I’d like to ask a question, but I don’t want to upset you again.”

 

“No, I’m fine. What do you want to know?”

 

“Is Julien’s death why you and Claude divorced?”

 

Evie shook her head. “If so, then only indirectly. The real reason we divorced was simply because of me.” She sighed deeply before continuing. “The right thing to do after that day would have been for Claude and me to turn to one another. To comfort each other, to encourage and support one another. And believe me, Claude tried. But, the truth is that, even after all that, I still wasn’t in love him. If we hadn’t had that one night together, I never would have married him. So, instead of turning to him, I poured myself into my studies and, later, into work to distract myself.  I began accepting jobs that would take me to far away archeological sites for months at a time. We eventually just drifted apart. I never asked, but I think that he ended up having an affair.”

 

            “What makes you think that?”

 

             “Because he married again less than a month after we divorced. But, you know what?  I don’t hold it against him. I basically abandoned him. He deserved so much better than me.  How I treated him is one of the biggest regrets of my life.” She looked down at that point. “Do you think less of me?”

 

            The witcher slowly shook his head. “It’d be hypocritical if I did. My past is littered with relationships just like that – well, except for the marriage and pregnancy parts. And it seems like I was always the one leaving, always the one hurting the other. So…we all make mistakes in life.  We all fall short of the whitewashed image of how we’d like to see ourselves. There have been times when I’ve been so disgusted with myself that just catching my reflection in my silver blade made me cringe.  I think that…failing to live up to our own expectations is a basic human condition. I guess the key is that, when we do, when we hurt others, that we recognize it, ask for forgiveness, and, then, try our damnedest not to make the same mistake again.” I’m doing my best now not to make the same mistakes with you, the witcher thought to himself.

 

            Evie nodded her head. “Yeah. I wrote to Claude a year after we divorced, asking for forgiveness.  He was incredibly gracious.”  After a pause, she looked at the witcher with tears once again welling up in her eyes. “Thank you, Geralt. I don’t think that I could bear it if you…” And then a tear fell down her cheek. “…if you stopped looking at me the way that you do.” With that, she looked down again.

 

            Geralt reached out his hand and placed it under her chin. He gently lifted her head and said, “Evie, look at me.”

 

            She lifted her eyes to see a kind smile on his face – a smile that reached up to his eyes.

 

            She then saw him tilt his head to the side, as if he was focused on listening to something.

 

            “What is it?” she asked, suddenly anxious.

 

            He shook his head. “Nothing. Just some morning birds. Looks like we talked all night. Dawn’s almost here.”

 

oOo

 

            Inside the small courtyard of the elven palace, a portal suddenly appeared, out of which walked Philippa Eilhart.

 

oOo

 

“Lydial and Barcain came to see you yesterday afternoon, but they didn’t want to wake you,” said Geralt. “Have you spoken to them about why we’re here – about the tome and the Sword of Destruction?”

 

            “Not yet. With everything going on the last two days, the timing never was right. With first the cirnubaug and then the wraith, I didn’t even want to mention anything else. What was I supposed to say, ‘And, oh by the way, you may also have the Black Ones here any day now to interrogate and torture you.’?”

 

            “Yeah. Well, how about we head down there now to discuss it with them? The sooner we let them know, the sooner we can figure out our next step.”

 

            “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

 

            “Truthfully, yeah.  After what I saw in that palace, I don’t like being here. I want to get as far away as Francesca as possible.”

 

            “Okay. I understand. I’m ready when you are.”

 

            “Actually, you go ahead.  I’ve got a few ‘witcher’ things to take care of. I’ll be down shortly.”

 

            She looked at the witcher. She could tell something was bothering him, but maybe, it was just what he’d said - that he wanted to leave quickly.  Frankly, after what she’d seen yesterday, she didn’t blame him.

 

“Well…okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”   

 

            As Evie walked out of the cavern, the witcher noticed that she had startled a black bird that had been perched near the entrance. It flew off and didn’t return.

 

oOo

 

            “Well, that is an intriguing tale, Philippa,” Francesca said with an eyebrow cocked.

 

            “And?” responded Philippa.

 

            “But, it just doesn’t interest me. My purpose is to ensure that the Aen Seidhe survive.  This woman and what she knows plays no role in that.  She’s insignificant. Therefore, when this Malek person shows up, I’ll just hand her over.”

 

            Philippa rolled her eyes behind her darkened glasses and sighed with frustration.

 

“Does no one see the importance of this?” she said aloud but, mostly, to herself. “Emhyr is surrounded on all sides. Radovid on one side, Temerian rebels on another. The nobles of his own Empire want to usurp him.  Not to mention the merchant guilds who are simply tired of this war. But, instead of focusing on any of those enemies, Emhyr is focused on her. So, she must be _vitally_ important.”

 

            “So, what exactly are you saying?”

 

            “What if she holds or knows of the key to some great power, to giving the Aen Seidhe the power to obtain the freedom that you’ve always wanted?”

 

Philippa had no idea if that was true, and even if it was, there was no chance she’d ever allow anyone to possess it other than herself.  However, right now, she just wanted the elven queen’s buy-in.

 

            A condescending smile crossed Francesca’s face. “Please, Philippa. It sounds like your desperation has driven you to flights of fancy and fairy tales. 

 

            Philippa remained quiet for a bit. “Very well. If you’re not interested in the woman, then do it for another reason.”

 

            “Oh, yes? And what would that be?”

 

“We could finally rid ourselves of that irritating witcher.”

 

            This time a more genuine smile came to the queen’s lips.  “Now _that_ does interest me. And I happen to know just where they are.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

A dozen Aen Seidhe warriors crept silently and with precision toward the cavern entrance. Aen Seidhe was translated as “of the hills” in Common Speech.  Therefore, it was no surprise that these elves, as befitting that description, moved with extreme stealth through the terrain of the Blue Mountains.  No normal human could have ever heard their approach.  It was a skill that had proven useful many times over in ambushes before. And all twelve of these elves had been involved in countless such actions while serving in either the guerilla Scoia’tael units or the elven Vrihedd brigade of the Nilfgaardian 4th Calvary Army during the second Northern War.  All were battle hardened and had seen a lot of death - many deaths caused by their own hands. As the dozen elves finally reached the entrance of the cave, they positioned themselves on either side of the opening, awaiting the signal to flood in, capture and kill – to capture the woman and to kill the witcher.

 

All twelve of these elves had been specifically handpicked by Francesca. She was aware that many of the Aen Seidhe, especially the Esseans, were quite grateful to the witcher for his work the previous day.  But, she knew that these twelve – even if they were grateful to the witcher – were supremely loyal to her.  There would be no reservations or hesitations in what had to be done.

           

            Both Philippa and Francesca trailed behind at least fifty yards.  While they both had a variety of skills, moving silently along a cluttered forest floor wasn’t necessarily one of them. Thus, they stayed back for they did not want to alert the witcher of their presence. A simple, inadvertent step on the tiniest, brittle twig could ruin the element of surprise for they were both aware of the witcher’s mutation-enhanced hearing. Upon seeing her warriors in place, Francesca turned towards Philippa.

 

            “Are you ready?”

 

            “Oh, yes,” she answered with the evilest of smiles.

 

Philippa was already picturing the witcher’s blood running cold and watching the light fade from his mutant eyes.  She had never forgiven him for his meddling at Loc Muinne.  While she clearly knew that he was a skilled swordsman, she also considered him a fool who bumbled and stumbled his way into affairs that were never his concern and far beyond his intelligence and station in life.  However, he always - shockingly and disappointingly - survived.  Philippa was convinced that it was simply through sheer dumb luck.  But, today would be his end. She knew that he was no match for her power.  

 

            Francesca opened a portal, and she stepped through with Philippa right behind. They were both anticipating the battle that would ensue as soon as they exited the adjoining fiery ring on the inside of the cave. Their queen casting the portal was the previously agreed-to sign, and upon seeing it, the twelve elven warriors moved with haste into the cavern. 

 

            Queen Enid’s portal appeared in the middle of the cave, and as soon as she stepped through, she saw, heard, and felt explosions in front of her, towards the entrance. Though the explosions did no actual damage to her body, she was so jarred and surprised by the unexpected display of flash, sound, and force that she took a step backwards, instinctively covering her face with her forearm. She immediately collided with Philippa, who had just exited the portal herself.  The two sorceresses lost their balance, and while Francesca fell to the cavern floor, Philippa was knocked backwards through the still open portal, which then immediately closed.

 

            The sorceress from Montecalvo stumbled out of the portal and landed on her hands and knees back in the woods of the Blue Mountain.  Falling to the ground had knocked her glasses from her face.  And while she didn’t actually need them to see, her vanity overwhelmed all other thoughts, and finding those dark-tinted spectacles that covered her still unformed eyes took priority over all else.  She frantically searched the forest floor around her, swiveling her head about for several, desperate moments. Then, with a sigh of relief, she saw them a few feet from her, partially covered by a leaf.  She scrambled over to them, blew the dust from the lenses, and then carefully placed them back onto her face.  Only then did she look back towards the cavern. 

 

What she saw was disconcerting.  It was a bit difficult to tell due to dust and smoke billowing out of the cave, but it appeared that the entrance of the cavern was now blocked by a large rock formation. That damned witcher.  How did he know?  She then cast her arms about in a dramatic manner.  Two seconds later, she transformed into an owl, but she didn’t fly towards to cave. While no one could ever accuse Philippa Eilhart of cowardice, none would ever accuse of her stupidity either, and she was not about to fly blindly into a now, clearly hostile, dust-filled environment where she would be at a disadvantage. As she took flight, she wished her fellow sorceress well.  

 

            Francesca sat up, her left arm locked straight and slightly behind her, supporting her upper body.  She squinted towards the entrance of the cave, but there wasn’t much to see as dust and smoke filled the air in that area of the cavern. But, despite visibility being impaired and despite a small ringing in her ears from the explosions that had just taken place, she could still hear.  She could easily detect the moans, cries, and shouts from her warriors -  her unseen warriors covered by the dust cloud.  Suddenly, she caught movement in her peripheral vision. She turned her head to notice a small round object coming with great velocity in her direction. The part of the brain that can assess and calculate danger in fractions of a second told her that it was another bomb, and she closed her eyes and shielded her face as she instinctively knew that she had no time to defend against it. She heard and felt the bomb hit and detonate close to her.  But, a moment later, when she felt no pain coursing through her body, she slowly opened her eyes.  She looked around and then down at herself. She smiled seeing that she was still whole.  The device must have malfunctioned.  And, then, what she saw next caused a sneer to cross her face.  It was time for this witcher to die.

 

            The monster-slayer walked out of the shadows in Francesca’s direction, his steel sword in his left hand. As he came nearer and nearer, the elven sorceress began reciting her favorite spell.  It only took a second to cast, but it was incredibly violent.  The witcher was almost on her when she threw both hands forward in his direction, eagerly anticipating the powerful streams of blood-boiling fire to end his life once and for all.  But, nothing happened. Her eyes bulged as she stared at her hands. Thoughts of fear, confusion, and accusation flashed through her mind, and, then, she glanced up at the witcher just in time to see his right hand pulled back next to his shoulder. 

 

            The witcher drove his closed fist forward with all the power that he could muster.  As his stud-covered glove smashed into the sorceress’ face, he could hear the satisfying sound of bone and cartilage snapping.  Francesca’s head jerked back, her body flying backwards several feet and falling to the cavern floor with a heavy thud. The White Wolf couldn’t remember the last time punching someone had felt so good. The queen moaned and reached her hands up to her once flawlessly-beautiful face, blood pouring from her shattered nose and split lips.  She felt something foreign in her mouth, and as she moved her tongue about, she realized he had knocked out two of her teeth.

 

            The Butcher of Blaviken stood, towering over the fallen queen of the Aen Seidhe.

 

            “You may not be on your knees.  But, bloody and flat on your ass looks just as good,” he growled. He was about to turn away when he added, “Oh…and just how much are you loving your magic now?”

 

            The professional killer then turned and stalked towards the entrance of the cave. The dust was dissipating just enough that when Francesca lifted her head from the ground, she could see five or six of her warriors standing on their feet, looking around, assessing what had just happened.  The other half she assumed dead – either from the bombs’ explosions or from being crushed by the giant, rock column that was now blocking the entrance.

 

            The sorceress slowly rolled over and then got to her knees, once again facing the cave entrance.  Her eyes were glaring at the back of the witcher, who was now surrounded by orange, lightning-like bolts of energy shimmering around his body. She saw a flash of steel and the sound of metal on metal as he parried an attack; a turn and slash and, then, she heard a cry of pain as an Aen Seidhe leg was lopped off. A pirouette and another cry as this time an arm was removed near the shoulder. An impossibly quick movement of the sword as an archer’s arrow was deflected; then, a somersault forward and a heart was pierced. A dodge to his right and another parry; a reverse spin and a head flew through the air, blood squirting from the neck. A final parry, a blast of Aard, and a downward thrust of his sword through the head of the supine elf.  Then, the witcher stood alone.

 

            The Butcher of Blaviken, not even breathing heavy, turned to face the queen, who was now standing.  While he was fighting, she had tried to cast another spell but to no avail. The dimeritium dust from the bomb had soaked into her skin, and it would now be quite some time before she could wield magic again. As the witcher slowly approached, she calmed her emotions. She would not allow this mutant to see her weak, though she knew that the missing teeth and the blood still running from her nose detracted from her regal air.

 

            “Well done, vatt’ghern,” she stated calmly, as if she was completely untroubled by the events that had just taken place.  “Those were my best fighters.” 

 

            The witcher now stood silently in front of the proud sorceress. 

 

            “I will admit – a fantastic display of skill,” she continued. “And just _how_ did you catch us off guard?  The ambushers being ambushed. Clearly, I underestimated you.  I _shan’t_ the next time.” 

 

She had a smile on her face, but one that would have looked appropriate on a beast about to eat its prey.

 

“There won’t be a next time.”

 

The sorceress rolled her eyes. “Please, not this again. We’ve had this conversation before, remember?  Though I can see the _strong_ desire in your eyes to strike me down, we both know that you won’t. You value the lives on the third-floor just…too…much.” She wiped the blood from her nose again and, then, looked down at her hand.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, vatt’ghern, I’ll be heading back to my palace.”

 

The witcher was staring at the elf, slowly nodding his head.  And, then, faster than her eyes could comprehend, he brought his sword forward and drove it right through her chest, the blade exiting her back.  Francesca’s eyes widened in shock.  She looked down at the steel weapon penetrating her chest, and, then, she brought both hands up to feebly grasp the blade. Her eyes returned to those of her killer.

 

“That was for Chiesa,” he said in a low voice.  And, then, he violently turned the sword, twisting it inside her body. “And, that was for her children.”

 

He brought his left hand up and gripped the now-dead sorceress around her slender neck.   Holding her limp body upright, he removed the sword from her chest.  He looked down at his blade, covered in her blood. He then slowly wiped the blade clean on the side of her dress. He flipped the sword in his hand and wiped the other side, as well.  He looked into her dead-eyes.

 

“Not so special after all. You bleed red, just like the rest of us…May you rest in hell.”

 

He gave a slight push with his left hand, letting Francesca’s lifeless, blood-covered body fall to the cavern floor.

 

oOo

 

            “And just why are you accused of treason, Evangeline?” Lydial asked. Her tone wasn’t filled with anger, just curiosity and concern.

 

            Evie reached into the satchel that rested against her left hip.

 

“Because of this.”

 

She pulled out the old elven tome and carefully handed it to her grandmother.

 

            Lydial looked into her Evie’s eyes. “What is this?”

 

            “Just read a bit, and you’ll see.”

 

            Lydial’s eyes moved from Evie and down to the book in her hands. She slowly opened the cover and began skimming the text.  She hadn’t even been reading for a minute when she gasped.

 

            “Evangeline, this is…where…where did you get this?” 

 

            “Stole it…from the Empire.”

 

            “This…this is a sacred book of Essea.  Do you understand…none of us have these anymore? They were all lost…during the -.”  

 

But, she didn’t finish. She was too overwhelmed with emotion, and tears were welling up in the Aen Seidhe’s eyes.

 

            Evie nodded her head for she knew well.  As a historian, she was fully aware that the Aen Seidhe who believed in the god Essea no longer possessed any actual sacred scriptures. Nothing in writing that they could lend to a neighbor or pass down to their children.  All the history, teachings, parables, and songs of worship surrounding their god were simply shared through oral story telling alone.  Lydial, for the sake of posterity, had taken the time over the years to write down what she had been told by her parents about Essea, but that only amounted to a couple of dozen pages.  Evie looked at her grandmother who was now holding the book with reverence.

 

            “I know that you’ve always told me that stealing is wrong,” she said with a smile, “but I had a very good reason.”

 

            Evie then went on to give Lydial and Barcain a shortened summary of the contents of the tome and tell them of her theory regarding the rod of Apophis confirming the existence of the Sword of Destruction.  During this discussion, none of them noticed a grey owl perched atop a short fence just outside an open window of the hut.  After flying away from the cavern, Philippa had made her way to the palace grounds.  She was aware of what Evie looked like based on the wanted posters, but she hadn’t known where she was located. For all she knew, the historian was still in the cavern.  But, she’d figured that she’d fly around the palace for a bit anyway. And given how few Aen Seidhe elves were actually left in the palace grounds, it hadn’t taken her long to find this conversation. Philippa was particularly thankful for the summer months. It made eavesdropping so much easier when folks kept their windows and doors open at all times.

 

            “So, that’s why I came here. I had to see if you were okay. And to warn you.”

 

            Lydial sat there shaking her head, a slight smile on her face, clutching the tome in her hands.

 

            “Well, no one has ever come here asking me about you…and certainly not about this.  This is so incredible. I can’t wait to read this myself. Oh…and the others…I can’t wait to share it with them.”

 

            Evie looked at her grandmother, smiling along with her.  But, then her smile left her face.

 

            “Nain, I’ve got something else I need to tell you.  Nothing to do with the book…but, what’s in the palace.” And then she told them of the third-floor lab.

 

            When it was over, everyone was silent. Barcain looked stunned, just sitting there with his mouth open.

 

            “Geralt said that Queen Enid made a veiled threat that if he told anyone, then harm would come to you. So, that’s why he didn’t say anything to you yesterday.  But…” Evie looked down to the floor. When she looked up, there was a pleading look in her eyes. “…I’d never want to do anything that’d put you in danger…but, I had to tell you.  So that…so that you’d know… about them and about Enid.  Hell, I refuse to call her ‘Queen’ anymore.”

 

            Lydial had a look of compassion on her face. She reached out and patted Evie’s hand.

 

“You did the right thing by telling us.  Sometimes ignorance is bliss, but most times, knowledge is worth the responsibility and risk that comes with it.  This is one of those times. We may have to bide our time, but once they’re all born, we’ll get them away from her if it’s the last thing we do.”

 

            Suddenly, they heard the sound of a large bird fluttering its wings coming from just beyond a side window.  Seconds later, Geralt came running into the hut.

 

            “We need to get the hell out of here…right now.”

 

oOo

 

            Though no one would have ever been able to tell from his appearance, Malek felt unease stirring within. Though Emhyr had given written orders to the garrison captain at Vengerberg to surrender a hundred soldiers to Malek’s command, that simply wasn’t possible.  First, there had been less than eighty soldiers in total housed at the garrison. Second, Malek, in good conscience, could not leave the garrison utterly empty for he was a firm believer that law and order walked hand in hand.  He knew, too well, that civil disobedience and rebellion would always, eventually, run rampant in the absence of any authority.  So, he would not take every available soldier for his mission and leave the citizens of Vengerberg at the mercy of rebels, hoodlums, and outlaws. Thus, along with his five hand-picked men, he had fifty Nilfgaardian soldiers riding hard behind him.  The number he had originally intended. 

 

            The reason for his unease was because, at his heart, Malek was a planner. He knew that, since the devil was in the details, so was the ultimate success of a mission.  There was a reason that Emhyr trusted Malek like than no other.  He simply got the job done, regardless of whatever the Emperor asked of him. And he was successful because he usually considered even the tiniest detail of the mission, took into account every contingency.  He would send in spies, set up reconnaissance, bribe watchmen, use blackmail, seduce the wives of the local magistrates, supply prostitutes _to_ the magistrates, whatever was necessary to get all the intelligence he needed. For he knew that proper planning depended upon accurate intelligence.  Faulty intel was, possibly, even more dangerous to a mission than none at all. However, all of that intelligence-gathering took time. Something that he’d not been given in this matter.  He knew that Evangeline was at the elven palace, but he didn’t know for how long.  And if she left before he arrived, then it might be another two years before they caught a sniff of her trail again.  He couldn’t count on another serendipitous event – like her recent abduction -  to reveal her location if she went back into hiding.  Malek knew that the Emperor, unless something drastically changed, would be no longer be the emperor in two years’ time.

 

            He acknowledged the fact that he could have used the sorceresses’ skills to arrive at the palace earlier.  However, Malek had two reservations with that.  One, their power was limited.  They could possibly, at most, teleport fifteen to twenty men to the palace before they drained themselves of power.  That simply wasn’t enough men if battle became necessary. But, more importantly, he simply didn’t trust them. He would never trust them. Thus, he and the fifty-five men at his disposal simply rode their horses hard.

 

oOo

 

            “And that’s why the four of us have to leave immediately,” stated Lydial. “For both your safety and theirs,” and she pointed her thumb upwards to the third floor of the palace.  “If we’re here, then we bring more danger to you.”

 

            Lydial was sitting at the top of the portico steps, with Evie and Barcain on either side of her. The roughly twenty, adult Aen Seidhe elves left in the palace stood or sat on the steps below.  She hadn’t gone into the details of Evie’s treason charge, but she had assured them that what Evie had done was justified. She also assured them that them not knowing the details at this point in time was the safest thing possible for all of them.  And since almost all of the two dozen elves still remaining were also Esseans, they believed her.  She had proved her honor to them over the years.  She had also revealed to them the existence of the fetuses on the third floor, with a tearful Nuremel confirming this truth. 

 

            “So, when the Nilfgaardians arrive, simply tell them what I’ve told you just now.  Simply tell them that we’ve left and that you to don’t know to where – cause that’s the truth.”

 

            It was at that point that the witcher walked up holding the reins of Roach and three other mounts. When Lydial had decided that she needed to gather up her friends and neighbors to say goodbye and to give an explanation as to why, Geralt had left for the cavern and then to the stables to retrieve horses and supplies.

 

            “We _really_ need to go,” he simply stated.

 

oOo

 

The witcher, the historian, the ex-soldier, and the full-blooded Aen Seidhe Essean were riding their horses hard through the Blue Mountains. At that point, they didn’t even have a certain destination in mind. They were just trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the approaching Nilfgaardians.  But, seeing as the Black Ones would be riding in from the west, they knew not to ride in that direction - at least, not immediately. They moved fast towards the north, towards the Pontar River, the natural border between the Nilfgaardian and Redanian empires.  They would all feel a bit safer once they were out of Nilfgaardian-controlled lands.

 

oOo

 

            Malek and fifty-five Nilfgaardian soldiers stood in the middle of the elven place grounds.  They were surrounding the small remnant of unarmed Aen Seidhe elves who still called the Blue Mountains their home.  Malek had ordered the elves to stand shoulder to should in a line.  Nuremel was standing out in front of the line. Malek’s eyes moved slowly over every elf standing in the row in front of him, carefully studying each one.  After he was done, he addressed Nuremel.

 

            “How long ago did they leave?” Malek asked.

 

            “Early morning,” Nuremel answered.

 

            Malek looked up at the sun hanging low in the sky and then exhaled deeply through his nose.

 

“And her grandmother…where is she?” he asked after turning his gaze back to the elf.

 

            “She left with them.”

 

            “Anyone else?”

 

            “Her brother.”

 

            Malek slightly nodded his head.

 

“I thank you for your cooperation so far, Nuremel, especially since I know how distasteful it must be for you to do so. That said, in spite of your cooperation, you must know that I must confirm that Miss VanderBosch is, indeed, absent from the premises…Timataal.”

 

            “Yes, sir,” said Malek’s burly, energetic second-in-command, stepping forward.

 

He was at least a foot shorter than Malek, but had a barrel chest and thick arms.  His short, reddish goatee was steaked with a bit of gray, revealing his age. He had met Malek over three decades ago and was fiercely loyal to the man. In fact, Malek considered him to be one of his few, actual friends. In private, he called Malek by his first name, but in front of other soldiers, he always used ‘Sir.’ And as deeply loyal as he was, he was also just as keenly intelligent.  And loyalty and intelligence were two traits that Malek highly valued in both his friends and subordinates.  

 

            “Take forty men and search everywhere.  The grounds first.”

 

            The search took an hour. During that time, Malek never noticed a gray owl resting in a very tall tree just outside of the palace walls.  The leaves of the trees provided the owl concealment, and from her vantage point, she could see clearly down into the grounds.  Her owl-eyes glared with hatred down at the tall, bearded man in black giving orders.

 

            A small voice deep down in Philippa’s mind was telling her that she was making a mistake.  It was telling her that she should be trailing the historian and the witcher. The historian was, obviously, the link to some incredibly powerful sword or elven artifact, an artifact that, in her hands, could allow her to rule the Continent and its peoples, which was clearly in her and magic’s best interest.  But, the larger part of Philippa dismissed the small voice.  It rationalized her actions, stating that she knew in which general direction the foursome was heading and that in her avian state, she’d easily be able to catch up and find them within the day when her business at hand was complete.  And, oh, how that larger part of Philippa wanted to complete that business. She would finally squash Malek like the insignificant bug that he was.  No man ever talked down to Philippa Eilhart and lived for long.

 

Malek nodded his head upon receiving the report that the grounds were, indeed, clear of his quarry. He then ordered that the palace be searched.  Before the men departed, Nuremel interrupted.

 

            “Mr. Malek, sir,” stammered Nuremel.

 

            “Just ‘Malek’ will suffice.”

 

            “Malek, sir, please…there is…a lab on the third floor…something of a sensitive, but highly important nature to us Aen Seidhe. I beg you not to enter. And I can assure you that nobody is hiding there, especially not the ones you’re looking for.”

 

            “Nuremel, I would like to take you at your word for, I will admit, you do seem sincere.  But, do you want to know what the best quality is in a conman?  The ability to fake sincerity. And given that we’ve just met and that I do not yet know your measure, you’ll have to forgive my lack of trust.” Then, Malek continued. “It’s nothing personal.  It just keeps me alive.”

 

            “Timataal, search the palace. I want you to oversee the third-floor personally.  Oh, and please be sensitive to whatever is in this lab.”

 

            “Understood, Sir.”

 

oOo

 

            Timataal was not liking the look of this in the least. The third-floor landing and corridor showed clear evidence of a recent battle of some sort.  Despite the elves’ obvious attempts to clean things up a bit, he could still see several shattered stained-glass windows, some tar-like residue on the floor and walls, and scorch marks elsewhere.  Most of the damage seemed to be coming from his right so he turned down that corridor. The corridor was fairly wide, enough for five men to walk down it abreast.  As they reached the door, he motioned with his hands to his men. Three moved to the left of the door, eight stayed in their current position in front of the door, and four would be following him in.

 

            Malek’s second-in-command slowly opened the lab door with his short sword at the ready.  Then, he and four other Nilfgaardians, all from the Vengerberg garrison, crept in. What they saw made them all pause.

 

            “What the hell?” cried out one.

 

            “Are these bloody elves _growing_ bloody elves?”

 

            “Shut it!” commanded Timataal.

 

            One soldier stepped forward. “Let’s end this freakishness.”

 

            As he was about to strike at one of the glass containers, an eerie, shimmering, translucent figure materialized from out of nowhere and floated in the middle of the lab in between the soldiers and the tables.

 

            “You will not harm them.  These are my children,” calmly stated the green-tinted specter.  

 

            If any of these men had possessed the knowledge of a witcher, they’d have known that this specter was not going to attack them at this point.  It was manifesting itself as a ghost, resembling what it had looked like while living in the world.  Witchers knew that one could still communicate and reason with ghosts when they were still in this form.  Witchers knew that it was only when they transformed into a monstrous wraith that it was time to draw the silver sword.  Unfortunately, none of these men were witchers or had their knowledge.  While Timataal recognized that they should heed the specter’s warning and simply walk slowly back out of the lab and quietly shut the door, the others did not. And despite the fact that they had heard hundreds of ghost stories, none had actually seen one in person, and at that point, fear overwhelmed any sense of rationale.  Their fight-flight-freeze reflex kicked in, and for three of the Nilfgaardians, their reflex was fight, and they charged Chiesa’s ghost.

 

            “Oh, hell,” was all that Timetaal had to say before all hell broke loose.

 

            Chiesa’s ghost immediately changed into a hideous-looking wraith, with shriveled skin, empty eye-sockets, a serpent-like tongue, and all the rest. The most relevant feature to the soldiers, however, were the ten-inch long, bone-hard, razor-sharp claws that protruded from her fingers.  She suddenly twisted her body like a top, and spun toward the three charging men, her claws slicing through their armor, faces, and necks.

 

            Timataal rushed from the room and dove to his right while yelling at the men to flee. The wraith swept through the eight soldiers standing in front of the door, their bodies falling to the floor as she tore them to shreds.  Timataal didn’t even bother checking on their status. He simply scrambled to his feet and ran down the empty hall, three men right behind him. 

 

oOo

 

            Malek, the remaining Nilfgaardians, and the Aen Seidhe were all standing or sitting in the middle of the palace grounds.  After the incredible excitement of the last two days, the last ninety minutes had, frankly, been a bit boring, for both the humans and elves involved.  Suddenly, they began to hear noises coming from within the castle, and it sounded like the shouts and screams of men.  Malek and his men all drew their swords and quickly turned to the elves, peering at them with half-questioning, half-accusatory looks on the faces.  Before they could question the Aen Seidhe, they heard the sound of glass shattering.  They all watched in shock as a bloody Timataal crashed through a third-floor window and fell ten feet to the roof of the portico. He landed on his side with a thud and immediately started rolling down the slick, inclined portico roof. His body sailed off the edge of the portico and dropped another fifteen feet to the palace grounds.  Malek rushed to aid his friend, but half way there, he suddenly stopped when he heard a hideous scream coming from the front doors of the palace.

 

Everyone’s heads turned to the front doors to see that the hideous scream had originated from a terrifying wraith.  The Aen Seidhe, after what they’d seen in the last week, were the first to move and began sprinting towards the front gates of the palace grounds.  Immediately after, half the Nilfgaardian soldiers were right behind.  Only Malek and four of his men remained.  He was about to defend himself from the monstrosity when, to his surprise, it simply slammed the front doors to the palace.  Moments later, he heard more sounds coming from within.

 

Malek headed to Timataal’s side and saw, to his relief, that his friend’s eyes were open and he was still breathing. 

 

“Run,” gasped out Timataal in a whisper.

 

“Not without you, friend,” replied Malek as he reached down and lifted his friend to his feet.

 

The chaos below was exactly the type of distraction that Philippa had been hoping for – something that would get Malek away from the bulk of his men.  Now, it was only him and five others. She planned to kill the five first so that she could then face Malek one-on-one. She relished the thought of killing him slowly, insulting him the entire time. As the half dozen Nilfgaardians slowly made their way to the front gate of the palace, Philippa swooped down into the palace grounds.  While not as powerful as when in her human form, even as an owl, she could wield some deadly spells. She quickly killed two of the soldiers with a lightning bolt spell before anyone even knew that there was danger from above.  However, these men were all combat-hardened. They immediately located the enemy, assessed the situation, pulled their crossbows, and began firing bolts in her direction.  In her avian form, Philippa did not possess a great deal of defensive magic so she flew to the ground and landed behind one of the statues that was fixed atop the fountain ledge, and quickly transformed back into her natural, human body.

 

From her position of safety behind the statue, Philippa called out in a taunting tone, “Malek, you claim to know me so well.  So, you should have seen this coming.” Then, she laughed. “Do you _know_ what my favorite spell is, Malek? Do you _know_ how this abomination is going to kill you? I’m sorry. I can’t hear you, Malek.” The sorceress laughed again, clearly enjoying herself.

 

She stepped out from behind the statue and quickly cast another lightning bolt spell, hitting another soldier.  Malek had been expecting it and had thrown a bomb towards the witch as soon as she had appeared. It detonated near her, but she had seen it coming and dove hard to her left back behind cover – behind the two-foot-high fountain ledge. While it hadn’t killed her, a bit of shrapnel had found flesh, blood flowing from a small wound on her leg.

 

“Philippa, you dead…hopefully?”  Malek asked loudly. 

 

He and his two remaining living men were also crouched behind the ledge of the fountain on the side opposite to Philippa.  However, they were both quite wounded, and one of them, Timataal, could barely stand.

 

“Why don’t you let my two men go? They haven’t done anything to you. You’ve got no fight with them.”

             

            “Of course, Malek. Just have them drop their weapons and stand.  I’ll open a portal for them back to Vengerberg.” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable. “How about I give them a good-bye shag as a parting gift, as well?”

 

            Just as she had finished speaking, another bomb dropped in her vicinity.  She cast a quick shield, not the most powerful she knew given that she had to act immediately, but just strong enough to absorb all the damage from the bomb. She immediately stood and cast a two-handed, highly intricate shield in front of her and, then, she began walking towards the other side of the fountain, in line of sight with her quarry.

 

            Malek peeked over the fountain ledge and saw Philippa walking in their direction, a shimmering blue glow in front of her.  He immediately stood and threw his last two bombs in her direction. They exploded upon hitting her shield, and while the sorceress stopped momentarily, his bombs harmed her in no way.  He quickly reached down for his weapon strapped to his right thigh, and as he pulled it from its holster, he felt a searing pain in his left shoulder as he was zapped with one of Philippa’s lightning bolts.  He flew backwards and hit the ground hard.  If he had been wearing typical metal, Nilfgaardian armor, he probably would have died from that one shock of lightning. However, he always preferred wearing specially-treated leather armor that was almost as durable and half the weight.  It was extremely expensive armor, but in this instance, it had definitely been worth the cost for metal, the great conductor that is it, would have done nothing to neutralize the power of the lightning bolt as his treated-leather had done. That said, the spell had still knocked him off his feet, and he could feel blood running from his left shoulder and down his arm.

 

            He looked up to see Philippa approaching with a cruel smile on her face.  She had activated her shimmering blue shield again.  She stopped ten feet in front of Malek and his two men, and he could see a look of victory on her countenance.  Timataal, his back propped up against the fountain, had his crossbow in his hands and shot a bolt in her direction, but it bounced feebly off of her shield. She glanced in his direction, a look of condescension on her face. When she shifted her eyes back to Malek, he had what looked like a metal pipe in his hand.

 

            “Oh, my. Plan on trying to beat me with a metal pipe?  You know, I must say, I’m rather disappointed in you. I thought you’d give me more of a challenge than this.  You’ve barely even scratched me,” she said with a look of amusement on her face. “King Vizimir put up more of a fight than you, and he was a pathetic, old man.” Then, she noticed a slow smile spread across Malek’s face.

 

            But, he didn’t bother with any taunts or insults.  He pointed the end of the tube in her direction and then slammed the palm of his left hand forward into a metal “plunger” that was connected to the pipe.  Immediately, there was a loud bang, and a blast exploded from the end of the tube facing the sorceress.  The explosion inside the tube sent out shards of metal at an incredible velocity, with so much force that they shattered Philippa’s shield and buried into her lower hip and upper thigh. 

 

            The sorceress fell back to the ground with a cry of pain, looking down to see blood beginning to soak her dress.  As she looked up to Malek, she could see him in the process of pointing the tube at her again.  She transformed quickly into her owl form, and as she flew over the palace walls, she heard another small explosion coming from behind.  She heard the sound of something whizzing past her, but the small, metal shrapnel sailed far wide of its target. 

 

            Malek knew that he’d missed with his second shot and began immediately twisting the cylinder in the tube until he heard a small click and knew that the next shot was now lined up and ready for detonation. He looked up to find his target, but Philippa was already out of sight.  He slowly got to his knees and quickly assessed the situation.  His injury wasn’t imminently fatal, but he was fairly sure that he’d succumb to it before he was able to ride to Gulet, which was the next closest town with any kind of medical help.  He strongly doubted he’d get any assistance from these Aen Seidhe.  His two men were in more dire straits. He sighed deeply as he realized that he only had one real option.

 

            Pressing his right hand forcefully to his left shoulder, he walked briskly out of the palace gates and found his horse in the woods.  He mounted and rode quickly back to the palace grounds.  He reached into his saddle bags and pulled out a megascope.  Though it was true that the device was invented by mages, non-magic users could also work it if they’d been taught how.  Luckily, there had been one sorceress who had been willing to teach him, and it was she that he’d be contacting now.  Given that she was a wielder of magic, he didn’t trust this woman at all; though, he did trust her more than any other that he’d ever met for, at least, she was a Nilfgaardian.

 

            Less than two minutes later, Fringilla Vigo walked out of a portal. 

 

            “Let them go through first,” he said immediately.  He and the sorceress helped Timataal and the other to their feet and through the portal.

 

            As Malek walked towards the portal himself, he wobbled a bit, the blood loss starting to affect him.  Fringilla reached out and grabbed him tightly by the arm and around the waist so that he wouldn’t fall. He looked down into the petite, dark-haired woman’s eyes, and she was staring right back at him, but as usual, her face was like stone.

 

            “Thank you,” Malek finally stated, and he gave her a small smile. “I owe you.”

 

            Suddenly, and for just a moment, Malek saw her mask disappear, as a smile appeared on Fringilla’s face. A smile that reached her eyes. It was gone in a flash, but Malek knew that he’d seen it, and he’d liked what he’d seen.  He found himself suddenly intrigued and thought maybe that he’d like to actually get to know this sorceress a bit better.  Give her a chance to see if she could prove him wrong about all magic-users. Of course, that could have been just the blood loss affecting his good judgment. Time would tell.

 

            With his left arm draped over the Fringilla’s shoulders and her arm still wrapped around his waist, the two stepped through the portal.

 

oOo

 

            Many hours later, after they were sure that they weren’t being followed by the Nilfgaardians, the four were standing by a small, mountain pond. They were giving their horses a much-deserved rest and water-break after such a lengthy and strenuous ride. The witcher was kneeling at the edge of the pond cleaning his sword and armor while Lydial and Evie held the Essean tome, discussing its contents in excited whispers.  Finally, Barcain coughed loudly causing everyone to look his way.

 

            “Um, you know, sorry to interrupt and all, but, just wondering, once we’re north of the Pontar, what’s the plan then?” asked Barcain, with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders.

 

            No one answered. The four were all looking at each other waiting for someone else to respond. Finally, Evie spoke.

 

“Geralt, Nilfgaard will never stop hunting me, will they?”

 

            He rose to his feet, walked over to the other three, and then shook his head.

 

“Nilfgaard might…but Emhyr never will. I know what he’s like. He’ll stop at nothing.”

 

            “Then, what are our options?” asked Lydial.

 

            All three were looking at Geralt, but he wasn’t sure why.  He killed monsters for a living. He was a witcher, not a…well, whatever they were expecting him to be.

 

            With a sigh, he replied, “Go back into hiding.  Head far north, maybe to Kaer Morhen. Though, they might expect that.  Or, two, we kill Emhyr…”

 

            Evie snorted. “We’re being serious, Geralt.”

 

            “Hey, I was just asked for options, not easy ones.  A dead Emhyr certainly won’t be chasing you down. Or…I guess a third option is that we find the Sword ourselves.”

 

            “For what purpose?” asked Barcain. “So that the four of us can rule the world?” he queried with a smile. “Actually, that sounds pretty good.”

 

            “I was thinking more along the lines of destroying it.  If the Sword is destroyed, then Emhyr won’t have any reason to hunt you any longer. Well, except out of vengeance. Of course, by then, maybe he’ll already be dead. He’s got plenty of enemies.”  After a pause, the witcher continued. “Going into hiding is definitely the easiest and probably the safest choice.”

 

            Evie looked down and shook her head. “I’m so tired of hiding,” she said in a whisper, though the rest easily heard her.

 

            “Evangeline, what do you want to do?” asked Lydial.  “We’ll go with you wherever.”

 

She looked at Barcain and Geralt who were both nodding their heads – Barcain vigorously and Geralt in a subdued manner.  

 

            “No,” said Evie shaking her head again, her eyes slightly wide. “You can’t ask me to decide for the whole group. That’s too much responsibility…Let’s vote. Majority rules.”

 

            The other three looked at one another, and then all nodded their heads.

 

            “Okay, Barcain…your decision?” prompted Evie.

 

            “Let’s go get the Sword,” he said with a big smile.

 

            “The Sword,” agreed Lydial.

 

            Then, all three looked at the witcher.

 

“Personally, I’d like to kill Emhyr, but…that’s probably not the wisest choice...so, the Sword it is.”

 

            Evie was looking at all three of them.  Then, a smile came to her face.

 

“You all voted that way just because you knew that’s what I wanted to do.”

 

            “You’ll never be able prove it,” answered Barcain with a grin.

 

            For a moment, the four just looked at each other, with three of them looking a little in shock at what they’d just decided.

 

“So, if we’re going after this thing, then where to, Professor?  You’re the expert,” stated Geralt.

 

            “Well, I don’t know exactly, but there are clues, and I think I know of someone who can help.”

 

            “Please don’t tell me he’s in Nilfgaard,” pleaded Barcain with a smirk.

 

            “Luckily, no. We’re going to Redania,” Evie stated, looking each one in the eye.

 

            “Redania, huh?” remarked the witcher, while slightly nodding his head. “Least there won’t be any bat-shit crazy witches to deal with.”

 

            Evie, hearing the word “witch,” suddenly gasped.

 

“Geralt, I just realized…what exactly happened to Francesca? I never saw her towards the end. Was she still in the cavern when you went back to get the horses and gear?”

 

            “Yeah…I left her in the cavern,” he replied in his typical, gravelly tone.

 

            “Geralt…what did you do?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice

           

            “Well, I killed her,” he stated matter-of-factly.

 

            “Geralt!” she gasped.

 

            “What?” he asked, genuine confusion on his face.

 

            “You killed her?” her voice raising even higher.

 

            “Well…yeah,” he replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “She came there to kill me.  It was self-defense…well, more or less.”

 

            “I…uh…” She couldn’t even get her words out. “I’m…I’m not upset about the self-defense, Geralt…I’m upset about…what about the lives on the third floor?” she finally got out between stutters.

 

            “Oh…yeah, that.  I took care of that,” he replied calmly with a nod of assurance and dismissive wave of his hand.

 

            “What? But…how?” Now, she was the one confused.

 

            “Yeah, don’t worry.  I took care of that.”

 

            “What do you mean?”

 

            The witcher looked at the equally confused Barcain and Lydial before turning back to Evie. Then, the tiniest of smirks appeared on his face.

 

            “You know, I just realized…I don’t think you ever really apologized to me for laughing at my poem.”

 

            Evie stared at the witcher for a moment before a reluctant smile came to her lips, and she began shaking her head slowly.

 

            “Really, Butcher?  Blackmail?  You’re going to use blackmail?”

 

            Geralt shrugged, the smirk still there.

 

“Blackmail. Guilt-trips. Constant nagging.  Aren’t those the pillars of a strong relationship?”

 

            “Oh, dear.”

 

            “No? Huh…well, that’s about all I’m familiar with.”

 

            Fifteen minutes later, Geralt and Evie were riding side by side, quietly enjoying each other’s company, with Barcain and Lydial talking and riding several yards behind them.

 

            “You know, Geralt, I really am sorry that I laughed at your poem.  I still would like to hear it. I promise I won’t laugh this time.”

 

            Geralt looked over to her and then back over his shoulder to make sure Lydial and Barcain were outside of ear-shot. Once he was convinced that they couldn’t eavesdrop, he turned back to Evie.

 

            “Alright,” he stated, his voice slightly above a whisper.  He looked forward and sighed before starting his recitation.  “‘Misery’ by Geralt of Rivia.  A cold blanket of misery comforts me. A shard of ice-”

 

But, he stopped when he heard Evie snicker.  He looked over to see her hand covering an obvious smile, her face turning read, and her eyes full of mirth. It looked like she was doing everything in her power to keep the laughter in.

 

            “Damn it,” he said, shaking his head, but he couldn’t keep the small smirk off his face.

 

            With that, Evie burst out laughing. The witcher knew that he should probably be angry, but, damn it, he just loved that sound.

 

oOo

 

A raven flew up and out of the forest of the Blue Mountains, flapping its wings vigorously as it headed down the steep slope, directly towards the elven palace grounds. As it came to the outer wall, it momentarily stopped pumping its wings and simply floated about on the winds, crisscrossing the palace grounds over the stables, the gardens, the kitchen, and the armory.  It let out a guttural croak and then turned its body towards the palace itself. It flapped its wings once more, soaring higher and cresting over the roof of the third floor.  The black bird spiraled downward and into the courtyard, gliding around the dead tree and a small fountain. It passed through an open door and into the foyer, back out of the palace, and, finally, flew off towards its owner back in the tree-covered mountains.

 

Ten minutes later, Yennefer of Vengerberg walked slowly up the marble steps of the elven palace. There hadn’t been a solitary elf or human – at least, living – on the palace grounds.  She couldn’t detect any sounds coming from inside the palace either, but, of course, she didn’t have supersensitive hearing like a witcher.  As she reached the top of the portico, she stopped, faced the palace grounds, and surveyed the carnage. As she stood staring, the events of the last two days began to flash through her mind.

 

oOo

 

            _“You’re willing to draw Malek’s ire?” asked Yennefer._

_“He has drawn my ire. His is but a trifle,” snarled Philippa.  “Remember, magic, not Nilfgaard, is what’s most important, and whatever this historian possesses or knows, it’s in our best interest to obtain it first. Consequences be damned.”_

_Thirty seconds later, Philippa’s portal closed, and the room was deathly quiet. Yennefer turned to Fringilla, but neither said anything to the other.  Eventually, Yennefer broke the silence._

_“I do believe that my time here in Emhyr’s court has come to an end. Please give both the Emperor and Philippa my regards. If they ask, tell them I have returned home to Vengerberg.”_

_The short-haired woman didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at Yennefer with her expressionless face.  Just when Yennefer was about to turn away, thinking that the Nilfgaardian sorceress wasn’t going to respond at all, Fringilla gave a short nod of her head and replied, “Farewell.”_

_Whether or not Fringilla actually believed what the sorceress from Vengerberg had just said, Yennefer didn’t know and, frankly, didn’t care. She gave a similarly short nod of the head in return and then opened her own portal._

_oOo_

Yennefer walked around the large hole in the middle of the portico. As she approached the front door of the palace, she could see more clearly the dead bodies of the Nilfgaardian soldiers scattered about. If she thought there was carnage out on the palace grounds, it couldn’t compare to the interior. The foyer floor was drenched with viscous, drying blood, the air tinged with a metallic odor. She quickly moved to her right and began ascending the stairs.

 

oOo

_Yennefer stepped out of her portal and into the Blue Mountains.  She had been in the area many years before when she’d been kidnapped by Francesca during the Isle of Thanedd fiasco.  She looked around the woods and then reached into a front pocket, pulling out a small, crystal-like skull.  After a short incantation, the relic transformed into a raven._

_She whispered to it, “Find him.”_

_oOo_

 

            The raven-haired sorceress made it to the second and, then, third floor of the palace, passing the bloody corpses of soldiers along the way.  When she reached the third-floor landing, she paused and took in the damage.  She turned to her right and peered down the long corridor. It, too, was lined with many corpses, but it appeared as if they had all been pushed to the sides, leaving a bloody walkway in between.

 

oOo

 

            _When she walked into the cavern, the witcher was standing and staring right at her, as if he had been waiting for her, which he had._

_“I was wondering about that raven. Not too many birds make my medallion twitch,” stated the witcher._

_“And I was wondering when you’d finally send your little flavor of the month on her way.  You were about to force me to interrupt. Oh, and hello, Geralt.  Thank you for the greeting. It’s_ nice _to see you, too.”_

_He sighed. “Yen, I really don’t feel like doing this with you. So, just tell me - what are you doing here? And for that matter, how the hell did you even know I_ was _here?”_

_The witcher didn’t have anger in his voice, just dread.  He had no idea what was in store, but he was not anticipating that the conversation would be pleasant.  They hadn’t spoken since he’d left her on the island of Undvik a little over a year ago, and he was dreading having to deal with her now.  It was always so…exhausting._

_“Oh, I was just in the neighborhood, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Please don’t ask stupid questions. You should know why I am here.  I have come to warn you. It seems-”_

_“Warn me? About what?_

_The raven-haired sorceress glared at the witcher. “If you’d stop interrupting, I’d tell you.” She then sighed. “Both Emhyr and Philippa are after your… friend. I don’t know why she’s important, but they both, obviously, are convinced that she is. And they both know she’s here.  Emhyr’s men should be here tonight if not sooner.  And I believe that Philippa…well, Philippa is already with Francesca in the palace, as we speak.”_

_“Damn it,” the witcher growled. Then, he narrowed his eyes at the sorceress. “Just why are you telling me this?  Like you actually care about her.”_

_“You’re right.  I don’t, but…” Then she stopped. “Just because we are no longer together doesn’t mean that…it doesn’t mean that I want to hear of your death.”_

_“Well…thanks,” he said, still a little surprised and wary of the sorceress’ unexpected arrival._

_He then quickly turned to look at his gear on the ground, already making plans. As he began to pull some traps and bombs from his saddle bags, he said over his shoulder, “Thanks again, Yen, but you may want to take off…unless you want to trade spells with those two. They might be here any minute.”_

_She stared at the witcher as he continued to gather his supplies. When she didn’t say anything, he stopped what he was doing and looked back at her. He could see something flash across her eyes._

_“If that is your wish. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. Farewell.”_

_Damn it, he thought. Without even trying, he’d somehow hurt her again.  He was about to apologize – for_ whatever _he’d done - when a realization hit him like a charging chort._

_“Yen, wait! I need you to do me a favor.”_

_“Of all the nerve.”_

_“It’s important. I promise.”_

_oOo_

As Yennefer started walking down the corridor to the open door at the end, her heart began to pound. Her breathing was becoming a little more rapid, and she noticed her palms getting wet. She could see through the open door that there were several Aen Seidhe elves in the room.

 

oOo

_“What is this favor that is_ so _important?”_

_“Promise me that when this is over – when Emhyr’s men are gone – when everything has quieted down, that you’ll go to the lab on the third floor of the palace.”_

_“And just what is there?” she asked_

_oOo_

Yennefer stopped at the threshold of the doorway.  There were more than a dozen elves inside the lab, all clustered closely together. They still hadn’t noticed her since they all had their backs to the door.  They were looking around the room at the large glass containers sitting on the tables.

 

“What are we going to do now?  It was only Queen Enid’s magic that was sustaining their lives,” stated one of the Aen Seidhe in a slightly desperate tone.

 

“There’s nothing that can be done,” replied another, her voice full of resignation.

 

oOo

_The raven-haired sorceress gasped. “Geralt, that can’t be. That is…Francesca, what have you done? And you’re sure?” she asked, staring hard at the witcher._

_“I swear it…on Ciri’s memory.”_

_oOo_

“I believe that I can help,” stated Yennefer softly.  All the elves jumped and turned quickly to look at the stranger in black that smelled of lilac and gooseberries.  “My name is Yennefer of Vengerberg, and I am a sorceress. I can help you…I can save them.”

 

oOo

_As she was about to turn and leave the cavern, Geralt said, “Yen, I want…I just want to say I’m sorry.”_

_She stopped and then turned slowly back to the witcher. “For what exactly?”_

_“Well…for everything.” His eyes lowered for just a second before they returned to her face. “I know that I hurt you…a lot.  I know, now, that…all you ever wanted was for me to commit to you, to love you the same way that you loved me. And I never did. I just…I just didn’t know how, Yen. I didn’t know how to love. Every time that things would start to get serious with us, I’d just leave.  Always returned to the Path…and you didn’t deserve that. So, I’m …I’m sorry.”_

_She stared at the witcher, and then she nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry, too.”_

_“And…I’m sorry for Ciri, too, Yen.” The witcher swallowed hard. “I did everything I could to save her,” the White Wolf’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I know you think of her as your daughter even more than I do.”_

_Yennefer said nothing. Just stared at the witcher’s feet._

_“I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me, Yen.”_

_She clenched her jaws and her eyes shifted upwards towards the ceiling of the cavern.  After a moment, she swallowed, her eyes moved downward, and she looked again at the aging man in front of her._

_“I forgive you. Farewell, Witcher,” she stated curtly._

_And with that, she turned and walked from the cavern._

_oOo_

Yennefer’s eyes moved quickly from one glass container to the next. Some of the fetuses were still so small and undeveloped that it wouldn’t have truly been clear what they were if she didn’t already know. But, some looked just weeks away from “birth.” As she looked at all of these little lives, she suddenly felt hopeful for the first time since Ciri’s death. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could be a mother again, after all. 

 

As a single tear fell from her lashes, a faint, wistful smile touched her lips, and she whispered to herself, “Thank you, Geralt. I love you, too.”

 

oOo

 

            Later, as Geralt, Evie, Lydial, and Barcain continued their journey in the Blue Mountains, they approached a long, gradual slope leading up to a high ridge, with the mountains rising high on both sides of the winding, rock-strewn path. They eventually reached the crest of the ridge, and as they did, a view of Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers, opened up to them far below. All four instinctively stopped upon seeing the valley spreading out for miles and miles to the west. Though it was spotted with the occasional farm house with its surrounding square of verdant crops, the rest of the valley was blanketed in swaths of bright yellows, pinks, whites, and blues - the flowers’ blooms giving testament to the origin of the valley’s name.

 

The four all sat there on the back of their horses, soaking in the display, the reverent silence only broken by the occasional soft neigh of one of their mounts. Miles beyond the valley they could see the Mahakam Mountains, the tallest of the peaks still topped with a cap of white despite it being the summer months. Geralt’s eyes drifted upward towards the blue sky above, and, then, they slowly fell back down towards the horizon.  The blue melted into purple, which, then, blended into orange and yellow and red - all the colors illuminated by the glowing ball of the sun just starting to hide behind the mountain range. Still, no one said anything, and no one rode on. Finally, in the silence, Lydial softly spoke.

 

“The stars declare the glory of Essea; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

The oceans display his majestic power, and the forests atop the highest mountains sing

praises to his holy name.

Day after day, they pour forth their praises; night after night, they reveal knowledge.

They use no words; they have no speech;

Yet, their voice goes out to all the earth; their message to the ends of the world so that all will know the splendor of Ghloirinevellienn, his glory over all.”

 

            The witcher turned his head slightly to look at Lydial. Barcain, too, had turned to peer at his grandmother, but she was simply staring off towards the valley below. His eyes then met those of Evie, and she smiled widely at her witcher. As he stared into her eyes, he slowly nodded his head, a faint grin coming to his lips as he took in her face, radiating with joy.  Geralt then turned back, his small smile transfixed, and as he gazed with awe at all of God’s creation laid out before him, he sensed the tiny light of peace and hope that was dwelling within begin to shine just a little more brightly.

 

oOo

 

The End of Book 1: The Wolf Awakens

 

 

Author’s Note (July 2017):

Whether they be in books, movies, television, or games, few characters have ever resonated with me like Geralt of Rivia has.  After playing the Wild Hunt game and its expansions many times, it was a melancholy day when I finally decided it was time to put Geralt on the shelf.  I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want his story to end, and, then, I realized that it didn’t have to. That led to the seeds of this adventure beginning to germinate about ten months ago. I am very grateful to all the dedicated professionals at CD Projekt Red, who pour so much passion into their games that it spills over onto the rest of us. Experiencing such an impactful game inspired me to attempt something that I had never tried before and, perhaps, never would have tried without.  Writing this story has been challenging, interesting, frustrating, but, above all, very rewarding. I thank you that you chose to spend your time with this tale, and I truly hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Book 2 is in the works, and I will post it when it is complete. Until then, may your lives be filled with grace and peace.

 

 


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